He might be brilliant, but…
Saturday, August 1st, 2009My darling husband can also be a bit on the flaky side at times.
For instance, yesterday I asked him to help me clean. About every 10 minutes, he managed to get sidetracked and started playing with his iPhone or something, and I’d have to look up from my own pathetic organization attempts and politely remind him, “Honey, could you please keep working on the living room?”.
“Oh yeah, that’s right, sorry.”
Ten minutes later, same thing.
Then last night, he locked us out of our house at a fairly late hour. Yes, you saw that right. How on earth did he manage to do that? you ask. He locked the gate from the inside without asking if I had my keys. I didn’t. Usually, he drives, so about half the time my keys are sitting on the counter. Or the breakfast-bar-thing. Or the china cabinet. Or on the table under a stack of papers. You know, all perfectly legitimate places for a set of keys to be hiding. It’s never been an issue before, so I guess he expected me to read his mind. Sometimes I’m good at that. Other times, I’m not so intuitive.
Well, yesterday he gave his house key to the rental agency, so he had no way of locking the door from the outside. Instead of patiently waiting for me to dig out my keys and lock the door, he jumped the gun and locked the latch from the inside just before shutting the door, hence locking us out while my keys were hanging out on the counter.
Thank goodness his car keys were in his pocket and my parents only live 10 minutes away, right?
And as if that isn’t plenty of reason to prove he can be a bit of a closet blond, then wait’ll you hear what happened a little while ago.
I’ve been digging through all of our clothes to do laundry and make a give-away pile and had just thrown a white load into the washer. James walked in to announce that he was going to jump into the shower and asked if I needed him to do anything. I told him I was washing the whites, so to please throw the white shirt he was wearing and his eh hem panties into that load.
“Okay.”
Out he came wearing nothing but his tidy-whities.
“James, I asked you to stick those in the washer,” I told him.
“Oh, did you want me to throw my jeans in there?”
“Um, NO. It’s the white load. I already did the denim load earlier. Did you throw them in there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
And then, you know what that butthead dared to say to me?
“That’ll teach you to call them underwear.”
Oh, that boy wants a paddle across his bare ass.
*sigh*
White load. White load. White load. As if it wasn’t blatantly obvious that I was washing the WHITE LOAD.
In his defense, he’s got a ton going on through his head. And really smart people are often absent-minded, right?
But still. I wouldn’t mind if he figured out how to finish a particular cleaning task or took a peek in the washer before tossing his jeans in. Especially when the denim load was waiting in a basket right in plain sight.
Current Mood:
Alarmed
Cool