Santa Maria Sun / Humor
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 13, Issue 39
ScissorgateThe Krider family's organizational skills don't cut it
By ROB KRIDER
The other day I was sitting at the kitchen table working on a little organization project. I was as happy as a clam, labeling things with my label maker, putting together small boxes to store things in and make stuff easy to find. My wife, who wanted me doing other things, like taking out the trash, referred to what I was doing as “screwing around.” Of course I didn’t see it that way. I was helping organize the household, a job that desperately needed to be done. Arguably, the trash also desperately needed attention, but you can’t do that with a label maker.
My wife thinks that organizing things is for people who aren’t very smart. In her mind (which she considers to be far superior than my mind, based on some highly scientific Facebook IQ test—which I wish I had never taken), my wife is so smart she doesn’t need to be organized. Her brainpower is so magnificent she can remember where everything is. And if by some scant chance she can’t remember where something is, that is because I lost it.
And this is where things went awry during my organization project. I was making a label that said “blue pens” for a small box that was going to go in a drawer (because I can never find a pen that works in my house—apparently I am just not intelligent enough to find stuff). While making the label, I needed a pair of scissors so I could cut exactly one half of an inch near each side of the text that said “blue pens.” This was important; if the label was crooked or the text wasn’t centered on the label, I may never be able to locate a blue pen. In order to cut the label to help me find stuff I needed a pair of scissors, which ironically, I couldn’t find. I made a note to myself that I needed a box labeled “scissors” to go next to the box labeled “blue pens.”
The scissors were nowhere to be found. Now, I know that I have personally purchased at least two dozen pairs of scissors in my lifetime. But for whatever reason, all of the scissors were missing. This is strange because I have never worn out a pair of scissors. I have never broken a pair of scissors. I have never let my neighbor borrow a pair of scissors to fix his truck. But somehow I have lost 24 pairs of scissors just before the exact moment when I desperately needed a set to cut my blue pens label.
I looked around the house by myself for a while before I began to ask my family if they’d seen the missing 24 pairs of scissors. I shouldn’t say I asked them since it was more of an interrogation: “Have you seen the scissors?” Nobody even looked up from their TV, computer, or iPhone to answer me anything more than, “No.”
Then I started to use investigative tactics to ramp up my interrogation: “I see you’ve been doing some crocheting. How did you cut the yarn?” or “I see you did a project for school. How did you cut the paper?” Nobody had an answer. These scissors somehow disappeared into the abyss. I was starting to think it was a family conspiracy to keep me from playing with my label maker. My family likes stuff disorganized, and they think I’m a big nerd when I want to organize and label things. They were frustrating me, and I was ready to resort to waterboarding.
My wife, whom I love, considers me a walking hypocrisy. She says I have a Type-A (anal retentive) personality and want everything perfect, but at the same time I am a messy person who leaves a wake of trash behind me wherever I go. Then, after leaving messes everywhere behind me for weeks, one day I snap, turn around, and start complaining to the rest of family, “This place is a disaster! We need to get organized. I’m tired of living this way.”
This Jekyll-and-Hyde routine around the house doesn’t win me any fans at home. My wife’s complaint is the family doesn’t know which dad they are going to get that day. Are they living with the dad who is going to leave the garden hose spread all over the lawn because he is in a hurry washing the racecar, or is it the dad who is going to yell at one of the kids because the hose isn’t rolled up perfectly, in an exact 2-foot-diameter circle by the faucet?
My wife isn’t haphazard in her organization. She is like a rock. She is solid and consistent in her behavior—being that she is always a complete and total slob. In her opinion, it is better to be messy all the time than messy some of the time and a jerk about the house being a mess the other half of the time. Deep down, I knew it was she who lost my scissors. So I focused my interrogation on her. I started to really grill her about the scissors: when she used them last, what she was doing. She ignored me at first then she lashed out, “Stop asking me because I DON’T KNOW WHERE THE SCISSORS ARE! I wish I did because I would use them to stab you right now!”
“There is no reason to get upset,” I said. “I just want to trim the side off of a label.”
“Why don’t you take that label maker of yours and put a label on your forehead that reads ‘A-hole’?”
“Consider it done. Find me a pair of scissors to cut that label and I’ll happily do it.”
“You actually would. Sorry, can’t help you. Ask Santa Claus. Maybe he will put some in your stocking.”
“I’m going to ask Santa for four pairs, so you can lose three and I’ll still have a set.”
“Oh, you’ll have a set—one set jammed in your back.”
“And Happy Holidays to you too, Honey.”
Rob’s label maker has a label on it that says, “Rob’s Label Maker.”
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