The Revenge of the "In-Betweens"

I had a queen-sized bed that I purchased from my first real job that didn’t require a plastic name tag. He had a futon that became our living room couch. I had a white tiled kitchen table with matching white wicker chairs. He had a black entertainment centre complete with five coordinating black remote controls and enough DVDs and CDs to stock an HMV.

Aside from the feng shui nightmare of our bedroom where unbeknownst to us, our bed was inadvertently pointing towards evil, we were for all intents and purposes the perfect yin and yang. We didn’t need to discuss who would do what chores, we just fell into our roles naturally, without debate. He cooked and I was his sous chef. He took out the garbage, I vacuumed.

Even when the endless loads of what my good friend likes to call “Mount Washmore” rose up against us in anger, we were undaunted. We were a team after all. For richer or poorer, better or worse, delicates or darks – he washed the laundry, and I folded and put it away.

Ah such marital bliss. But then things slowly began to unravel, one sad and mangled orphaned sports sock at a time. The truth came out. He turned into the dreaded “Mr. In-between”.

I know you are scratching your head in dismay. So was I, but it wasn’t until I discovered that this condition actually had a name could I finally take a deep breath and start the 12-step program. It’s so liberating when you can attach a label to a psychosis because then and only then can the healing process truly begin.

The “in betweens”, apparently as my girlfriends earnestly informed me, are the laundry limbo where clothes reside in a purgatory that is neither clean nor dirty. The “in betweens” had become an unwelcome tenant in our happy home and to my chagrin, my husband was their landlord. On the surface it doesn’t seem like something to get your knickers in a knot about, but if this transitory residence happens to be the bedroom, bathroom, living room floor, the gloves come off (mine, mind you are neatly folded and packed away), and it’s every tighty-whitey for himself.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no neat freak by any means. I do however have a short fuse when my husband finds forgets to pick up said “in betweens” so that they then begin to fester behind the couch. At this point in time, they have now reached the point of no return once the rancid stench of gym gear sprint out the door.

Now ladies, nobody likes a nag. I’m a simple girl. I don’t need ornate jewelry or elaborate grandiose gestures of fancy. When we built our home, the one and only request I had was not a granite counter top or a marble tile entry (ok, that’s not entirely true, I was pretty insistent on stainless steel appliances…but I digress), but a good old fashioned laundry shoot, like the one I grew up with in the Maritimes. This was basically, a hole in the floor with a lid, nothing too crazy. Little did I know that such a seemingly simple request would turn into an iron-clad, fireproofing disaster for the builder- but my incredibly accommodating husband made it happen and for that I am very thankful.

I just don’t understand why the “in betweens” keep piling up at the foot of the laundry shoot that he so ardently petitioned for? Doesn’t he realize that it takes the same amount of energy to drop his clothes down the shoot as it does on the floor?

Peacekeeping efforts aside, I’ve been forced to use various war tactics:
#1. Ignoring the pile- this only makes it apparently grow larger.
#2. Dropping whatever I find on the floor on his head while he sleeps. This approach doesn’t seem to even ruffle his feathers as he slumbers so soundly. A burning house couldn’t even rouse this sleep beauty.

So what’s a girl to do? The obvious would be to simply ask him to pick his things up, sometimes her does, other times it results in his Y chromosome takeover- “whY me?”, ‘whY should I?”, “whY bother?”.

I am at a stalemate with my mate’s stale unmentionables. I remember watching a twisted daytime talk show about a lady who nagged her husband for the same domestic crimes after seeing a bread crumb trail of his clothes from the front door to the bedroom. The lady was advised to let sleeping dogs and wrinkled shirts lie where they may, be thankful that she had a husband to begin with and to see his little piles of clothing as endearing reminders of his love for her… Hmmm…no thanks, I don’t buy it, not unless he takes the time to spell out: “You are the love of my life” with his preshrunk chinos and golf shirts, at least.

When I recounted this tale to my hubby, sensing the distress in my voice, he vowed to do better. I have to commend him because for the most part he has cleaned up his act, literally. Only occasionally do I find a rogue T-shirt balled up beside the computer.

As for the renegade orphaned sock dangling homelessly across the banister, well at least it is no longer alone, but gently tied in a knot with it’s mate as a neat little pair nestled together at the foot of our bed, forever linked in a loving embrace… alas… much like the two of us.

Tammy Estabrooks is a speech language pathologist in private clinical practice with children. She is an advocate for children with communication disorders and loves sharing her enthusiasm with the community through workshops and presentations. A former Mrs. Canada 2005, Tammy is the mother of two girls.