Conversations with My Husband: #197
Originally published at Welcome To The Dollhouse. You can comment here or there.
This is an actual conversation that transpired between me and my dear AdoringHusband.
First let me set the scene. For about the past, oh, 17,000 years I’ve been asking AdoringHusband to clean off the top of his chest in our bedroom. In addition to the standard detritus of coins, old receipts, wrappers from cough drops, and disease-ridden balled up tissues, there were also lovely items like old lollipops, empty blister packs, wrenches and screwdrivers, and other crap that could not be identified. Somehow last Sunday night, I finally had had enough of looking at that ugly mound of stuff that did not seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.
I chose to do what I usually do when I need AdoringHusband to put something away: I put the item or items on top of his side of the bed. Most of the time this works and he will put whatever it is away in order to get into the bed to go to sleep. But there have been times that he has been amazingly lazy and just either slept on top of whatever I’ve put on the bed or chose to move the item to the crap holder bench at the foot of the bed.
I was nice enough on Sunday to attempt to sort the landfill into manageable piles of crap for him to go through. Yet halfway through the task I found that I had collected so many coins from the surface that I had run out of room in my hand to hold them. I didn’t want to put them on the nightstand or on the bed since Zara is still insisting mouthing everything. Then I remembered that I had given him just the anniversary gift to deal with this clutch of coins: a leather valet. But where was it, that was the question.
I leaned over the railing on the second floor landing and called down to him as he watched football in the family room below.
“AdoringHusband, where’s that leather valet I gave you for our anniversary to hold your coins in on your nightstand?” I yelled down.
“Valet?” was his reply, as his eyes remained glued to the television set. (And before anybody says anything to me about interrupting a man and his football, let’s put aside the sexism and recognize that a) I love a great game of football as well; b) it was a sucky game anyway and c) he had been watching football the whole damn day long.)
“Yes,” I said with exasperation, drawing the word out until it sounded like the hiss of a tea kettle whistling, “the leather valet for your coins that I gave you for our anniversary? It’s black and it has your initials on it?”
“It’s not up sitting on my dresser?”
“No, it’s not on your dresser. I was just up in the bedroom. Don’t you think I checked there first?”
“Well it’s probably here somewhere,” he concluded.
“You think?” He was too far away to see my eyes rolling. “Might you be able to narrow down where that somewhere might be?”
“Maybe the garage or the basement? Somewhere.”
“Didn’t I bring it in from the garage several months ago where you had left it in a box gathering dust? I put it in your hand to take upstairs. What did you do with it?”
“Are you sure it’s not on my dresser?”
I fought the urge to throw the handful of coins down onto his head. “No it’s not on your dresser.”
“Then where is the valet?” he turned to me and asked.
“Did I not just start out this dialogue with that very question?! If I knew where the damn thing was, why would I come out here and ask you about it?!”
“Well, I thought you were testing me.”
I may have blacked out at that point. I may have thrown the coins. It’s all little fuzzy after that point, in truth.
I’ve got ask you, though, is there any wonder why I’m aging before my time? The man will drive me up the fecal creek, I tell you.