After talking it over with my husband this morning, we’ve been left to conclude that I’m the foolish one. He’s never able to find anything, despite being told EXACTLY where whatever it is is. We have officially given up believing he can get his head out of the clouds (OK, his ass). ‘Cause now that I’m older, I’m wiser like that. I don’t feel well today, and I’m kinda whiny, which is rare–the whiny part that is. I’m achy and I have a sore throat, and I’m torn between forcing myself to be the boss of my cold and crawling under the covers to watch football. I don’t feel much like household chores or archaeology. Unearthing the most common of objects is a challenge tantamount to climbing Kilimanjaro for my husband. I know this. So today, I admit defeat. Insert smiley face waving a white flag emoticon here.
Exhibit A: Preparing dinner last night, my husband was in charge of the fish preparation. It was Friday in Wisconsin; we fry fish. I think it might be a law or something. I returned the bread crumbs to the refrigerator after he’d portioned out what he thought he would need, but it turned out he needed about a half cup or so more. Where, o where could they be? He watched me put them in the refrigerator. I know this because we were chatting about how empty the fridge was as he peered into said fridge WATCHING ME put away the bread crumbs. But a minute later, they were simply nowhere to be found. Mysteriously vanished. So weird that I was the only one who could find them IN THE REFRIGERATOR. It’s a confined space, people. Not like he needed a GPS or even Google Maps. He stood with the fridge open, “looking” for the bread crumbs. And yes, the quotes were for effect there.
Exhibit B: Preparing breakfast this morning, I’m asked where the salt is. Now this one’s a wee bit tricky because there are two places salt could be in our house, which now that I think of it should actually make it easier to find, right? The salt shaker on the kitchen table would be the clear winner here, and that one he did find. But the bulk container from which the shaker gets refilled (and yeah, he was refilling the shaker, so mad props to him for that one. Don’t be hatin’ on me, people.) The store of salt is in the cabinet with my baking stuff, kinda front and center seeing as I’d just purchased it because I noticed we were running low on salt. But no, it was nowhere to be found. I must have dreamt having made the salt purchase because there ISN’T ANY SALT, WENDY. And no, he’s not yelling at me because he is not a jerk, just sucky at finding things so shouting from the kitchen to me on my deathbed/living room couch. Besides the blue cylindrical container right here, you mean? THIS salt container?? Yep, I had to drag my whiny butt off the couch to find it for him.
Exhibit C: An oldie, but a goodie. A couple years ago, Tom was at Sam’s Club shopping and couldn’t find the laundry soap we needed. I’m at work, you know, working like the responsible adult I pretend to be, when my cell rings–
Tom: “Hi, Honey. Do you know where the laundry detergent is?”
Me: “In the basement next to the washer? Wait, where are you? It sounds like real echo-y.” (Me thinking he’s at home looking around the house for laundry detergent which really, is silly enough, although I think you have learned from Exhibits A and B that it’s not as ludicrous as all that)
Tom: “I’m at Sam’s Club over by the chips and stuff.”
Me: “You’re at Sam’s Club and you’re calling me at work, 20 miles from Sam’s Club, to find out where the Gain is at Sam’s Club?” It’s possible my voice carried a certain tone, sure.
Tom: (apparently realizing only at precisely that moment, striking him like a lightning bolt, how utterly ridiculous the phone call to me is) “Um, yeah?”
Me: “It’s in the aisle on the west side of the store, three from the back, on the opposite side of where they store the dog food.” And then I sighed (not quietly) the “I love you, you’re a dumbass” sigh as I often do in these (not infrequent) situations, and we both laughed. Because not to laugh would be to lose my shit, and his super keen powers of observation and search and rescue are laughable. There’s much more real stuff to lose my shit over, like his 18 pairs of shoes and the boys’ 16,395 Pokemon cards in the living room. Some other time. Each time he “looks” (yes, again with the quotes) for something, I end up smirking in that self-satisfied, snotty way I know I do, feeling a slight air of superiority knowing I’m the one they all can’t live without. My sons, sweet boys they are, are JUST LIKE THEIR FATHER. How I love them all! Give me strength. And if any of you yahoos can possibly find it, can you get me some Ny-Quil?