A Story About A Toothbrush

Green and I are currently in a holding pattern. We are, in a manner of speaking, “in the process of moving”. However, our last day in our old apartment was June 30th, and our first day in our new apartment is July 8th. In the meantime, we are staying at Green’s parents’ house. Luckily for us (and probably also for them), they are out of town until the 9th. All of our stuff is presently sitting downstairs, in the living room, in boxes, waiting for us to relocate it once more.

By the way, I briefly considered writing a post about how to approach the process of moving if you are like me and get easily overwhelmed by the concept. But on the Big Day when the most stuff got moved, it also happened to be my third day without sugar, and I proceeded to have breakdown after sobbing, snotty breakdown and concluded that were I to actually make that post, the content would consist of nothing more than “GET SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT FOR YOU (PAY THEM IF YOU HAVE TO)” in giant letters that filled the screen. After the first round of bringing crap from our old place to the temporary place, Green very sweetly suggested I stay here, chilling in the AC, while he went and gathered the rest of our belongings.

Have I ever mentioned how incredibly lucky I am to have landed this guy?

But anyway, this isn’t a post about MOVING, this is a post about a TOOTHBRUSH.

Since Green did the bulk of our packing, one of the things he packed was our toothbrushes. For a while, I didn’t bother asking where he packed them, because by the time I remembered I wanted to brush my teeth, he was already in bed and I didn’t want to wake him, then in the morning, I forgot. So I have been without a toothbrush for, oh, seven days.

This morning, however, I awoke and was feeling it. I wanted my mouth to taste like delicious, refreshing toothpastey mint, not like feet and old garbage. So I poked Green as he played diligently away at his video games.

“Hey, where did you pack our toothbrushes?”

“In that box.”

“In which box?”

“That box where I also packed my razor.”

Side note: This razor thing is significant because yesterday, while we were out for the 4th of July, he mentioned how he really wanted to shave his stubble because it was starting to itch, but the razor was packed into the bottom of some box and he didn’t want to dig it out.

So I said, “Okay, where is that box?”

“Downstairs.”

ALL of our stuff is downstairs. In boxes.

“Well, what does that box look like?”

When you read Green’s answer, I want you to realize that this was his response to the question, “What does that box look like?”

GREEN’S RESPONSE: “When you open the box, it’s got shoes crammed on top.” He then made a gesture to indicate the cramming of the shoes.

I stared at him momentarily, then said okay, and proceeded to travel downstairs with the only real clue to the toothbrush box being that it had shoes crammed on top. I told him I would also procure for him his razor, so that he might end the stubble misery.

The box turned out to not be too difficult to find, given that I could narrow it down to boxes I didn’t already know the contents of. Since for the most part we’d hit every box at least once, I found the shoe box and dug out my toothbrush, the toothpaste, and Green’s razor.

I brought the razor back to him and he told me I’d grabbed the wrong one. “I wanted the electric razor!” He said.

I stared blankly at the razor I currently held, which had a long cord hanging from it, ending with two prongs that I’d imagine you stick in the wall to provide it with electricity. “Is this not an electric razor?”

“Well, yes, but I wanted the one I shave my face with, not the one I shave my head with!”

“I didn’t realize they were different.”

He assured me it was okay and didn’t really matter and would I put the razor in the bathroom and not on his computer okay thanks. I carried the thing with me and my toothbrush to the bathroom.

Where I proceeded to brush the ever-living crap out of my teeth.

When I went to spit, the toothpaste spit gunk was a terrifying greenish-brown color, and I briefly panicked that in the seven days of not brushing my teeth, some alien race had grown in my mouth and I’d just killed off most of them and now they were most likely plotting how to destroy me from the inside out as vengeance for murdering their leader (because I’d gotten their leader in this terrible massacre). But then I remembered I ate pistachios yesterday.

I brushed again anyway (just to be sure and to kill off any of the remaining freedom fighters). Now my mouth feels oodles better, and I am ready to begin my Tuesday.

How was your morning?

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