September 7, 2015


           Does anybody, besides me, get exasperated with husbands who can’t find a goddamned thing?  If I hear, “Honey, where’s the juice?” one more time, I just know I’ll wind up sitting at a table with my defense attorney and trying to plea bargain down to a life sentence. 
With subtle variations, my day starts off like this:  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, toothpicks holding my eyes open, slurping down my first cup of coffee and missing my mouth (if you can believe it), most of time, while watching the birds packing it in at our feeder just outside the window.  The Zen-like tranquility of this quiet, sunny morning is about to be broken.
“Honey, where are my boxer shorts?”
“In the drawer, where I’ve been putting them for the last ten years.”
Which drawer, though?”
At this point, I heave a sigh audible on the 50-yard line of the nearest football stadium, stomp down the hall, open the drawer and hand him his shorts.
“What would I ever do without you?” he purrs.
“You’d be pretty chilly,” I reply.
I go back to my coffee.  I have just resumed my chair, when . . .
“Honey?  Where are my loafers?”
“In the closet.”
Where in the closet?”
“On the floor!”
“I don’t see them.”
I pray for restraint and stomp down the hall, yet again, open the closet, bend down, pick up his shoes, and hand them to him.
“What would I ever do without you?” he asks again.
Without me?!  I’m starting to question the fact that he even lives here!
Then he comes out to breakfast, open the fridge and . . .
“Where’s the orange juice?”
“It’s behind the milk.”
“No, it’s not.”
Grinding my teeth to nubs, I stomp over to the refrigerator, move the milk aside with a dramatic sweep, and indicate the orange juice, much the way a German Shorthaired Pointer would indicate a duck.
The sarcasm is lost on him.
Now he has the orange juice container in his hand and looks me right in the face and asks, “Honey?  Where are the glasses?”
I hand him his spectacles.
The sarcasm is lost on him.
“No, I mean to put the juice in,” he whines.
That finally does it.  Still in my bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, I put on my coat, get in the car, and drive away.
If you happen to be passing by, you might want to drop off a gallon of orange juice for my husband so he doesn’t get dehydrated.
Just don’t put it behind the milk!

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