I have to interrupt the oh-so-inspiring diary of my new non-complaining status to share this with ya'll.
You'll thank me later.
We all know that I worship and adore Rich. He's truly a prince among men. Among his many wonderful qualities is a general tendency towards organization. As a rule, I tend not to understand his organizational process, but it works for him. Seriously -- ask him if he knows where his first-ever organic chemistry test is and he can produce is it less than 10-minutes. We rely on him to keep tabs on things like passports, birth certificates, and the list of wines we like. And while his version of neat-and-clean is vastly different from mine, he's hardly a slob (nor is he the one with obsessive-compulsive disorder, so one should consider the perspective).
So I think I've established that he's generally orderly enough -- except when it comes to his valet, which is his own little version of Monica's Closet. His valet sits on a shelf in our master bedroom closet and is the repository for anything and everything that comes out of his pockets at the end of each day. It is a Valet of Shame and I typically deal with the slovenly disarray by simply averting my eyes and conjuring up some of Rich's more endearing qualities. That tactic can only work for so long though --- eventually the inside of my eyeballs start to itch and the only balm is a nice 30-minute purge of the offending space. Most of these cleansing rituals are accompanied by some general annoyance at the pounds of useless crap I find and destroy.
Today was different though. Today took the cake.
Here's a sampling of what I found during today's purging:
- Receipts from every place he's been for the past 4-months. He's pretty much screwed if he ever tries to hide an affair -- the guy saves every scrap of paper he touches. Hoard much?
- Rocks of various shapes, sizes, and colors. Note that this is RICH'S valet. Not Ean's. Unlike Ean, Rich is 42-years old with an ivy-league education, MBA, and a job that involves computers and legal-ese . He's not a geologist or archeologist. I can't conceive of any reason why the man walks around with rocks in his pockets. Any ideas?
- Dirty tissues. I know he just had a cold, but EWWWWW!!!!!!!!
- Three watches. None of them work. Perhaps this is related to why his is compulsively late.
- Two cell phones. Not working. (see also, hoarding).
- An expired credit card
- A dental mold. Who the hell keeps a dental mold on a valet? Who the hell keeps a dental mold period? I suppose it could come in handy if I ever had to identify his body-- but then again, he's probably not getting very far, what with the broken watches, dead cell phones, and expired credit card.
- A tooth. An honest-to-goodness tooth. An actually piece of human dentition. A FUCKING INCISOR!!!
I only wish I was kidding.
My immediate thought was that he decided to supplement our income by taking up organ harvesting, but I quickly realized that it was one of the kids' teeth that the tooth fairy had probably deposited in his pocket one night. And, like I said, everything from the pocket eventually winds up on the valet.
But still. A tooth?
I called him, because I couldn't NOT share the horror of finding a TOOTH on a valet. He didn't answer, but called me back a few minutes later. How does one share this finding? There's just no graceful or tactful entry into that conversation other than:
"Dude. I found a FUCKING TOOTH on your valet. You're a sick asshole".
God, I love him.
