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Within the next few weeks, the soon-to-be ex-husband will be moving out of this house and into his own place.
It is with the most mixed feelings possible that I contemplate this occurrence. I worry that once he’s on his own, he’ll eat only McDonald’s. I fear that he’ll get buried when a year’s worth of junk mail falls on his head. I dread hearing that he cannot make child support payments because he’s purchased too many books, magazines, concert tickets and McDonald’s.
Don’t scoff. Any one of those things could happen.
Even though I worry about his ability to care for himself when he’s alone, I so want him gone. I want his body and his stuff out of my house.
I want his smell out of my house. In the time that he’s inhabited alone what used to be our bedroom, a nasty stench has developed up there. I don’t know what it is. Unwashed clothing, mixed with unopened windows, alongside unbagged trash? Funky sheets? BO? Festering-dirty food containers? I don’t know. But I despair of ever being rid of the odor.
He has a date set by which he plans on having the bulk of his things moved to the new place. He even has a moving company set to pick up the few large items he’s agreed to take with him.
However, the house is awash in his possessions, as would be expected after a decade plus of cohabitation. Tidal pools of his stuff collect in every room, on every bookcase, on every level. His stuff is everywhere, and as far as I can tell, he’s made little effort thus far to pack it up.
He purchased a large number of boxes several months ago with the intention of packing his things gradually before the move. He’s assembled and filled perhaps a half-dozen of the boxes. The rest are now buried in his room.
I want it out. I want it all out: every scrap of paper covered in his hand, every worthless collectible, every unread book, unused notebook, unworn shirt, forgotten game, half-used toiletry, once-used appliance, obsolete electronic and duplicate audio CD.
And those are only the good things, the things that have some actual value to someone. The man has an uncanny ability to hold on to trash–old mail, magazines, newspapers, coupons, receipts, soda cans, cracker boxes, dirty spoons, filthy plastic bowls.
I have no doubt that The Case of AAG’s Missing Teaspoons will be solved once and for all when the man moves out; I’m fairly sure that they all languish now in the bowels of his room, coated with weeks-old ice cream and possibly flies.
Maybe he’ll just throw them away instead of bringing them down to the kitchen. This is also entirely possible.
Here is my cynical prediction: He will move the bare necessities of his new life, with the promise of gradually moving the rest of his possessions as he is able.
But he won’t be able. He’ll find every possible reason NOT to move his lesser possessions—until I finally cannot live with the squalor and the stench and the every-day reminders of his absence. At that point I’ll go through the remainder with trash bag and box, packing up the semi-usable stuff and pitching the rest.
I’ll take the blame for rushing him, for throwing away his needed items, for generally being a pain in the ass. I’ll be accused of pushing him out. Of not wanting him around. Of wanting to nullify him.
And maybe those things will be true. But if I’m paying for this house and the services necessary to keep it afloat, then I suppose I have some say over what amount of his stuff I’ll allow to stay here.

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