I just purchased a new home last week and 
while moving our belongings therein, Julie5 
asked me to give up some space on the floor
 of the rather large closet that I had 
commandeered for my SW stuff. 

Now, we had been planning this move for 7 months 
(long story) and she knew perfectly well and far 
ahead of time, that I planned to use this particular 
closet with its many adjustable shelves and locking 
doors as MY display space. It had been agreed upon. 
Promises were made. Favors were called in. 
It was a done deal. 

So what now did my dearest spouse wish to 
cram in with my most prized collectibles? 
A huge Rubbermaid bin full of sports equipment. 

Facts known beforehand 
A) The sports equipment was to be put 
into the box window seat on the front porch. 
B) The then emptied bin was to take up new employment 
in the backyard as a home for wayward gardening tools. 

It is every woman's prerogative to change her mind, and 
it is my experience that where a mans will, meets that 
of his better half Murphy's law reigns supreme. 
Anything that can go wrong ...will. 

I recounted the aforementioned plan for the bin and its contents, 
I stated that I would get it put away, where we had BOTH once 
agreed as it should be, as soon as the item in my hands 
(MIB 12" Han/Taun) was safely perched in the display closet, but 
her mind was arranged that it was in her way where it stood and 
she had decided that it would slow down her progress to move it 
back to the front porch to get it put aright according to the 
original plan (forget that it would have been me moving it and not her) 
so for sake of expediency she wanted it put in my closet, and 
this thing must be done now. Part and parcel to all this was the 
implication that once in there, it would stay. 

I said: "The bin won't fit in here with all my Star Wars stuff." 

"Nonsense." she replied, "The bottom shelf is completely empty, 
just slide it in right there." Then came the fateful moment when 
I could have just pushed it into the closet and moved it to its 
rightful place at a later date but it had been a long morning of 
heavy lifting and as there wasn't enough oxygen in my brain, I 
dared speak the truth. And in the glaring light of honesty I 
foolishly uttered the following words: "But Sweetheart," I said 
placatingly, "these are just the things I had on the bookshelf 
in our bedroom. There's still 3 more boxes from the basement and 
2 in the attic at my parents house." 

A look of mounting horror slowly spread over her face and she 
stepped back slightly as if to get a better view of the scale 
of what was implied by the things I had just said. A thought 
formed on her brow and I could clearly detect its transformation 
as it became the question on her lips. "My God! she gaped, How 
much Star Wars stuff do you own?" 

Thinking I quickly backpedaled to the collectors trusty 
fall back statement for exclusive use in just such an emergency. 
"It has to be spread out for best display", I sputtered, but it was too late. 

I found myself eye to eye with THE LOOK. That painful gaze of loving concern and 
disbelief that all men get when they have just inadvertently revealed the terrible 
dark secret of the true depth of their hobby related madness to their spouse. 
It worked across her features like faint flashes of lightning from a distant 
storm on the horizon and then her jaw hardened, as the truth of my betrayal 
coalesced around her heart. I knew then I was doomed. In my mind the familiar 
voice of a protocol droid spoke the words; 
'There'll be no escape for the Captain this time.' 

Just then my oldest son (AKA the boy) came in and inquired where his rollerblades were. 
He wanted them in his room as safekept against the sticky fingers of his brothers 
(who need to wash their hands better) "I looked in the front porch window box," he began 
"where its all supposed to be but... Oh, is this the bin everything is in? Can I go dump 
this in the box and take my blades up to my room?" 

y wife’s rage which was just about kick into hyperdrive, suddenly reverted 
back to real space, and the task at hand. Crisis averted, for now. 

That was Saturday. It is now Monday. 
She seems to have forgotten the whole incident and I am not foolish enough 
to bring it up. I have spent no time on the 'couch action playset'. 
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