Ok, basically we don’t agree with anything about anything. Don’t ask me why we could end up together in the first place because it is the question I could never come up with an answer. In normal days, I could manage to hold my ground around him without being a bitch about it, however there is not much normality about house furnishing and home removal. In fact, everything about house furnishing and removal is chaos. I hate chaos. It rattled my teeth and slithered under my skin like a damn little chigger. Ever since we started to furnish our new house I’ve been in desperate need to put everything back into order. Unfortunately, my husband never shared such desperation. As I said, he is my polar opposite. Facing with a trouble, I am likely to jump into any action before it got worse, while he is sort of postpone-it-until-the-last-minute-to-see-if-it-get-any-better guy. Consequently we had a lot of fights over house furnishing. Just when I thought we could get any worse, there come to removal.

At the thought of all the messes and chaos it could bring up, I dread the day we move to our new home. There is no way that I could finish all the packing and unpacking within a day. It’s also unacceptable, as my husband suggest, to live in our once pretty and orderly new home---with all those packs scattering around it probably would turn into a living hell---for more than a week until we finally sort things out. I insist that we should start packing-and-unpacking stuffs earlier, and every day we could bring something to our new home and put them down to where they belong to at lunch break, so it would not be such a nightmare after we actually moved in. My husband, as usual, took no-comment attitude as long as he didn’t take part in. Fine, I can’t count on him about things like that anyway. For the last ten days, I rushed around between my home and my office, nursing my grievances or more precisely, having worked myself into a stew. Naturally the following scene is hardly avoidable:

My husband leaned back on the sofa and crossed his ankle on his knee, taking a relaxed position, his body language saying that he has nothing to worry about because I would take care of everything.

“We’ve already done with books, and now we can leave all these packs to the remover.”

“No, we can’t. I’ve just packed a few, and there are so much left!” I signed, exhausted.

“You mean we have to move these too? I don’t understand why so hurry? If we continue to do that, there would be nothing left for the movers.” He said sarcastically.

“You are kidding right? Do you know how many stuffs we need to move? And think about all those unpacking we have to do!”

“What’s so big deal? And for God’s sake, we paid the remover 340 per car, and for what?” he raised his voice to something alarmingly close to yell.

“Not a big deal? Do you have any idea…Oh, I forgot, you do have no idea, because you never help! And it is no big deal at all, just sitting here and watching me to work my butt off!”

For the record, I am not a yeller, and I’ve always thought it was better to solve disputes with compromise rather than raising voice, but it felt so good to yell at this man right now.

“What’s wrong with you?!” my husband had every intention of starting a fight while my four-year-old son suddenly jumped out from his room, barefoot and stomped: “I am mad, I am so mad at both of you!” eyebrows raising and fingers pointing. Believe me, it’s quite a scene for a four-year-old to work up such serious expression. For a moment, I forgot what’s to argue about and couldn’t smother a smile. So was my husband.

My dear, when you grew up, you could really consider being a fireman, because as little as four year old, you have already put out more fires than i can remember.