Husband-head can’t find his tail …
“You remind me of Eeyore,” I blurted out to husband-head. “It’s like you can never find your tail.”Husband-head stopped scrounging around the junk drawer in the kitchen and just looked at me funny.”Who the hell is ‘Eeyore’?” he asked. “And what do you mean I can never find my tail?”I rolled my eyes in exasperation..”Duh … Eeyore is the depressed, stuffed gray donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh,” I explained with a sigh. “He’s always losing his tail and everyone has to help him look for it.”Husband-head put his hand to my forehead as if to see if I was running a fever.”You know, you should really stay away from the children’s section at the library,” he suggested. “Even THEY know that what they’re reading is fiction.”But it was true. It seems at least once a week we embark on a game I fondly call “Where’s my … ?” in which husband-head is desperately looking for something that he can’t find.”Where’s my keys?””Where’s my wallet?””Where’s my other shoe?”And those are just the daily ones. On the weekends, the “where’s my” game gets even better.”Where’s my tape measure?”How would I know? I do not use the tape measure. I do not know HOW to use the tape measure. And I certainly don’t know where in the world you put it after you used it last.”Do we have any more batteries?” husband-head asked in the midst of a project last weekend. “Where are they? I need some double A’s.”The last double AA thing I know about was a bra I wore when I was 13. Other than that, no. I haven’t a clue as to where any batteries might be no matter what size they are.”Where are the scissors?” he asked a short time later.”Probably in the bathroom,” I lied. “I used them to floss my teeth before my dentist appointment last week.”I do not sew and I do not cut my own hair. Nor do I make paper cut-out dolls as a hobby. How the HELL do I know where the scissors are?”Have you seen the Scotch tape?” husband-head asked again, obviously completely unaware that I have so far not known where ANY of the items he is looking for is located.”I used the last of it to tape my head onto my neck before it explodes from you asking me where everything is,” I retorted.It’s funny, though. He seems to have no problem knowing where the beer is, where the remote control for the TV is located and that the sports section of the newspaper is right on the coffee table.So I decided that I would turn the tables on him so he knew what it felt like to be the “where is” recipient.”Hey, where’s the truck?” I asked nonchalantly, even though we were both at home.Husband-head looked at me with big eyes.”Oh my God!” he said, rushing to look out the window. “Did you not make the payment?”It was there, I was just screwing with him.”Where’s Weber?” I asked a few minutes later about one of our big yellow Labs. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”I knew that would throw him into a panic.”WEBER!” he went screaming into the back yard. “WEBER COME HERE!”With an evil smile, I reached under the dining room table and patted Weber on the head.”OK, I know what you’re doing,” husband-head said when he returned and saw us. “That’s not funny.”Yeah, well neither is being asked where everything is all the time.Then I sidled up to him and did my best Eeyore imitation.”Oh tail! Oh tail! Where could you be? Why can’t you stay attached to poor ole me?”Husband-head cut off a piece of the tape that he’d found and put it over my mouth.Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.
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