Bless his heart he did the laundry for me. I think my endless complaining about the division of chores in our household kind of encouraged him into it. And he was aflame with laundry duty, too! He washed sheets, towels, kid clothes, couch blankets, chair covers… He even washed the pants I had just stepped out of as I hopped into the shower. Thing is, my cell phone was still in the pockets.
This isn’t to say that I haven’t made tragic errors in judgment in the care of my family. I distinctly remember a certain Christmas Duck incident that poisoned all who ate it with a bad case of (...) Yes, including the dog. Merry Christmas indeed.
However, my husband is a genius scientist. He’s a compulsive direction reader. He’s maniacally thorough and methodical. So, being the girl that I am, I can’t help but wonder. Is killing my cell phone with the washing machine a tragic accident?
Or a brilliant scheme of his to never be asked to help with household chores?
I wouldn’t ordinarily suspect him in this manner. Except that he also shrunk the crap out of all my sweaters.
I think he was sending me a message.
I yelled and screamed that he never should have washed my various colored sweaters together anyway. This makes me a great big fat jerk, because he did the laundry and got rewarded with screaming.
(His plan is intricate and brilliant.)
He calmly pointed out that yes, he knows to separate colors and whites. He toiled with many loads to shrink all my sweaters, thankyouverymuch.
Further evidence of his diabolical plot: The Kitchen.
Last time I checked, our kitchen was located in the very house he lives in. There’s a pantry for dry goods and a refrigerator for things that would rot if we kept them in the pantry. Dishes, silverware, appliances and cutlery have all enjoyed long residency in their respective cabinets and drawers.
So here’s the scenario. My husband and I are sitting on the couch, watching The Dog Whisperer on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
The First Strike: “Did we buy a brownie mix?” He knows full well we bought brownie mix. We always buy brownie mix. I know he knows this, so I say nothing. Ten minutes later, he realizes that the first wave didn’t have the desired effect. Time for more drastic measures. He pops up. “I’m going to go make me some brownies….”
So it begins.
“Where’s the mix?” “Where’s the mixer?” “Which mixers do I use?” “Where’s the oil?” “Which baking pan should I use?” “Do we have cup measures?” “Where are the eggs?” “What size is this pan?” “Where’s the cooking spray?” and on and on….
His barrage of questions, surely, is a sadistic tactic to get me up off the couch to make the stinking brownies my <effin’> self.
I ask him if he thinks that while he’s at work, I’m busy maliciously re-arranging our kitchen into an unrecognizable configuration designed to trick the end user. He just gives me his cute smile. I know that if I allow him to continue, I’ll have a giant brownie slinging mess to clean up. If I get up and make the stinking brownies, he’s outsmarted me. …Just like he did with the laundry. I instated a ban against him doing laundry of any kind…. $@%!.
For all their seeming guilelessness, I think men might be this smart.