http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnkQc-zY-ng&feature=player_embedded
For most of my adult live, I lived alone.
From the age of 19 to 29, I had my own place, paid my own rent, did things my own way. No roommates, with the exception of the exception of the late Eleanor Roosevelt Rigby, who was feline.
Enter Mr. Bunny.
I ripped up my life, moved from New England to New York, and found myself slowly being driven insane.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore Mr. Bunny. I married my best friend, my biggest fan, my guardian, the fiercest bulldog a woman could ask for. Plus: he’s a ginger. Jealous yet?
When I first moved in, Mr. Bunny would not leave me alone. It was like being constantly followed around by a seven year old who always had something to tell you, except Mr. Bunny was in his mid-thirties. I would get up and get my coffee in the morning and be bombarded with conversation. After ten years of observing this ritual alone — well, for someone like me, that was jolting. I would go bed every night with a book and he would follow me, chattering. I couldn’t go out for papers and the coffee without him tagging along. I love to go out with him. But once a day, for a set amount of time, I need to — be alone. After I found myself locked the bathroom crying with him yelling running commentary on the DVD I was missing from the living room, I finally had to sit him down and talk to him about Alone Time. “Don’t you like me?” he asked. Of course I do, I said. I adore you. But when I go in the bedroom with a book, that means it’s time for Alone Time.
To Mr. Bunny’s credit, he has learned about, accepted, and even embraced Alone Time. He doesn’t understand it. But he gives it to me, joyfully.
Mr. Bunny’s little kitchen habit that would drive Gandhi to murder is what I call consolidation. Nothing is ever packaged well enough for him. If I make soup and put it in a big Tupperware container, he will sneak into the kitchen when I am not looking and break it down into smaller Tupperware containers, and then use the big Tupperware containers to store Buster and Amelia’s dry cat food, instead of simply leaving the fucking cat food in the bag. If the box containing sugar is half-empty, he will pour the sugar into three smaller plastic containers. Same story with half-empty ketchup and mustard bottles. Or olives. My fridge is filled with dozens of small containers, when four bigger containers would take up less space. This means there is never any Tupperware available for anything.
He says I do not understand because I am spatially disabled.
For the purposes of this article, I just asked Mr. Bunny “What do I that drives you insane?”
He said, “You know, this is it. Maybe you could wait and not ask me these questions when I’m running late for work, please.” He waved his hands above his head as he spoke.
Huffy, isn’t he?
What does your significant other do that makes you want to set cities afire?
