What they don't tell you about running a political campaign - well, there is no they and nobody is telling anyone anything - is that in addition to the fact that you will never see your campaigning spouse again except when he is sleeping, your house will start to fill up with junk.
We already had a junk problem that I kept under control through ruthless junk management. Of my own junk, I mean. Primo's junk, I don't control, as much as I would like to. Primo's junk is his and he will let his 1993 Apple employee handbook be taken from his cold, dead fingers.
Now, in addition to Primo's old junk that he imported from where he used to live halfway across the country to where we now live, we are getting campaign junk.
Direct mail from companies that provide campaign-related services.
Campaign materials from other candidates.
Primo's door literature.
Primo's voter lists.
Because his office is already full of his work junk - training manuals for products that his company no longer sells, the Leaning Tower of Visa, coupons that expired two years ago, Primo has claimed the stairs, the upstairs hallway, and the guest room. He has tried to take over the dining room.
The kudzu of his crap is forming a tapestry that covers almost the entire second floor and will make its way down the stairs into the space where I live. It will probably smother me in my sleep.