Help.

Despite what Tiffany may believe, I'm very organized. I really shine in prepping for a move.

Yes, we're moving. To New York. I know there should be a dramatic post about the decision, but I'll save the drama for my memoir that, once someone agrees to publish, you all agreed to buy and promote by clicking on this link. As you know, this blog is more a place to chronicle coupledom minutiae.

Anyway, we get a lot of magazines (one reason I can't manage to finish the Sunday paper on Sunday). So, as soon as we established a moving date for next month, I stacked up all our most recent issues, listed them on a piece of paper in a tattered spiral notebook and began calling various 800 numbers to explain our situation. After the endless discussions Tiffany and I had about the move with our family and friends and each other, I was relieved that the subscription robots are perfunctory people-like things. They just need the answer to when.

The process was working like a charm. I had the satisfaction of putting bold check marks next to periodical after periodical until Tiffany decided to get involved.

I was on the phone with the robot woman from Everyday Food, a gift subscription from someone who found out I find cooking (okay, mostly baking), slightly therapeutic. The robot woman asked for my account number. But when I reached toward the stack on the right side of the shelf where I'd put all the magazines I still need to deal with, Everyday Food was not there. I checked the left stack where I'd put all the magazines I'd finished with, thinking maybe I'd made a mistake (Ha!). No. Nor was it in the bathroom magazine container or in the recycling bin.

The robot woman insisted I provide my account number. She sounded testy.

"Tell her to wait!" I screamed from the kitchen. "Tell her to wait one second! I can't find Everyday Food!"

"Oh, that one?" Tiffany asked casually, as the robot woman began to ask if I needed additional time. "I threw that one out. I thought you were done with it."

"If you need more time to make your selection..."

"Yes!" I screamed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that. If you need more time..."

I sprinted into the living room and dove across the carpet to better reach the mouth piece of my smartphone. I hadn't heard what word choices the robot woman had given me, so I pulled a desperate try from my vocabulary:

"Help!" I screamed.

There was a pause.

And then...

"Okay," the robot woman said. "Let me get someone to help you."

I swear I heard her chuckle. But it was hard to hear over Tiffany's outright laughter.