(I should have said in the first place that this post is about exactly what it claims to be about. Really, would I do that to you twice?)
We've lived in this house for almost two years now, and there have been some things that have been bothering me about the house for the entire time. Just little things, nothing to get all in a dither about, but they bothered me all the same. When we moved in, I was pregnant. And so if I didn't like the way a particular piece of furniture was arranged, I could a) hope it was one of the five pieces of furniture in the house small enough for me to move in my delicate state, b) just deal with it, or c) ask Chris to move it.
My husband has many wonderful qualities, he's an excellent person, really, but when you say to him "Hey, that (800 pound, hide-a-bed) couch is driving me straight up the wall every single time I walk into the playroom, would you pretty please move it an inch and a quarter the left? And then just nudge the (on wheels, but still impossibly heavy and hard to move piano) half in inch to the right so they will line up?" he says, almost invariably, and I admit that I can see his point, "No."
He won't do it. I can't blame him, really, as the effort required is far out of line with the reward, which to him is nothing anyway since neither the couch nor the piano are bothering him in the least. And I'm sure he does a mental calculation in his head and weighs the relative pain in the assedness of moving whatever I want moved against the pain in the assedness of listening to me bitch about it for a while and decides that sooner or later I will shut up and that tolerating a little wifely nagging is less trouble than shoving and grunting and sweating and so he says no.
And I am happy to do these things myself, but first there was the resident parasite issue and then the recent surgery issue and then the baby hooked to my boob every waking minute of every day issue, plus the ongoing cooking and cleaning and laundry and child wrangling issues, and admittedly the sit on the couch and eat M&Ms as fast as I can shove them into my face until the children wake up issue. But I finally got to it. I moved the couch. I moved the piano. I actually moved both out into the hall and moved the rug underneath then two inches to the left, because that had been bothering the crap out of me too. And then I took all the furniture out of the living room and moved the ridiculously large, heavy, cumbersome rug in there three inches one way and half an inch the other (yes, precisely, I measured just so that I could tell you), and I feel so much better. And Chris didn't even notice, which just further proves why he refused to do it in the first place.
And I'm not complaining here, I actually support this particular refusal to accommodate my more egregious whims. But I am wondering, where do you come down? Does the rug get moved, or is close enough close enough? And what about your spouse? It's a scientific experiment, really. Does every relationship need one rug mover? Do two rug movers drive each other crazy trying to achieve a mutually ideal rug placement? I want to know.