Not Okay

I may have a few obsessive-compulsive traits.

Perhaps.

My husband installed several three-way switches in our house.  In theory, we could use the closest switch to turn a light on and off and avoid crossing dark rooms littered with our animals, all of whom are black.

But when all my lights are off, I need all the switches on one wall to be pointed in the same direction.

Yes, it is a need.

And, yes, I will use the farthest light switch to turn off a light and walk through a dark room just to keep all switches pointed in the same direction.

And, yes, I will lie in bed and silently seethe when my husband walks through the bedroom and actually uses the three-way switches for the correct purpose, leaving the little rectangles in all kinds of positions before sliding into bed oblivious to the fact that I hate, hate, hate him.

I also need my number of eggs to be even. Because you just cannot arrange a symmetrical pattern with an odd number of eggs.

You. Can. Not. Do. It.

So the other day, I needed three eggs for a recipe. And I was almost giddy because I remembered from my last use of the eggs that I had left an uneven number in the carton.

It was all lopsided and everything.

But then, as I was pulling the last egg out, I suddenly, for no apparent reason, became involved in some kind of juggling act.

And one single egg hit the floor with a tremendous splat, yolk and shell oozing across my wood floor.

“Noooooooooooooo.”

“Are you okay, Mom?” Younger asked gently.

“Noooooooooooooo.”

“We can clean it up.”

“Nooooooooooo.” I stared at the glob as my husband hurried to grab cleaning supplies. “But my eggs were going to be an even number.”

“Mom,” Younger said, his voice even more gentle. “Are you okay?”

No, I am not okay.

My light switches are pointed in whatever direction my husband felt was fit to leave them in and my eggs are in an asymmetrical pattern in their carton.

No, no, no.

I am not okay.

I. Am. Not. Okay.

Clearly.

 

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Dad’s Way

My husband has never really been the disciplinarian of the family. He tends to follow the whatever-you-want-as-long-as-it-doesn’t-kill-you-immediately path.

A long time ago, when we were still spending summer nights at baseball fields, Elder patted my side and asked, “Hey, Mom, after the game, can we get some ice cream?”

Exhausted, I relinquished my usual role of decision-maker. “Oh, Elder, I don’t know. Ask your dad.”

Elder threw up his arms in victory, ran to Younger, and announced, “We’re getting ice cream. Mom said to ask Dad.”

And I sighed a little.

Then the other day, as soon as my husband walked in the door after work, Younger asked, “Hey, Dad, did ya bring me some soda?”

My husband shrugged off his coat. “Now, what kind of father would I be if I encouraged your bad habits?”

“So . . .” Younger tilted his head, eying his father. “Yeah?”

“It’s in the fridge,” my husband admitted.

And I sighed a little.

Or maybe a lot.

I sigh so much, it’s hard to say any more.

I Am So Smart

Last night, my husband studied the two packages we had received in the mail, talking ostensibly to Younger but actually to himself. “This one is mine,” he announced. “Because I need to fix your mom’s dryer.”

As if the dryer only wicks moisture from my clothes.

But I rolled my eyes while maintaining my silence because I do appreciate that his mechanical abilities prevent us from paying a couple hundred dollars to have a twenty-dollar part replaced.

But then later, from the laundry room, I heard singing: “I am so smart, I am so smart . . .”

And, well, I maintained my silence then, too.

Because sometimes I simply have no words.

No good ones, anyway.

Stun Me

Younger and his dad had a disagreement the other day regarding the younger generation. Two opposing viewpoints presented with supporting arguments that might have even amazed Socrates.

And some politicians.

“Snowflake,” his dad claimed.

“Dinosaur,” Younger countered.

Absolutely stunning repartee.

Not impressive.

Or intelligent.

Just, you know, stunning.

 

 

 

Y Chromosomes

Yesterday, as I was working diligently in the kitchen, I requested Younger help brown the hamburger.

“Are you asking because you need help? Or because you want me to learn?” he asked suspiciously.

Rolling my eyes, I latched the can opener onto another can. “I would appreciate the help, and you should appreciate the learning.”

“We are listening to my comedians,” he told me, as he reluctantly straightened from his slouch on the sofa and onto his feet.

“Why do you and your father believe you need either incentives or rewards for participating in the cooking of your own dinner?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged then offered, “Y chromosome?”

“I don’t know why chromosomes, either,” I replied, dryly.

“See, Mom,” he responded, shuffling into the room. “We all have two chromosomes –”

“I understand about the Y and X chromosome, Younger,” I interrupted, now with an edge.  Then I pointed over my shoulder at the pan on the stove behind me. “Brown the hamburger.”

“Well, Mom, some of the kids at school don’t know about chromosomes, and they just learned about it. It would have been a long time ago for you.”

So, Younger was the only one of my three males who didn’t feel it necessary to explain everything to me.

And, apparently, I’m old.

It was a rough day.

 

 

Not So Simple

Yesterday, I was scheduled to sit at the desk in the museum, so I rode to work with my husband. When he was late leaving his office due to a telephone conference, I, of course, had to wait for him, which isn’t usually a problem. But last night I had to attend practice for our Christmas program.

So, our answer to the dilemma of cooking and eating dinner in the fifteen minutes I would have at home was to grab a pizza from a convenience store between work and home.

Apparently, that was the incorrect answer.

Because, while waiting in line to pick up the pizza, we heard the following discussion from the two in the kitchen:

“They ordered a large sausage and pepperoni.”

“The pepperoni pizzas are there. The sausage pizzas should be finished in a moment.”

“No, they wanted sausage and pepperoni on the same pizza.”

“On the same pizza? Maybe the sausage is hiding under the pepperoni.”

Two heads bent over a large pizza, as they sliced through the cheese in the hopes of discovering disguised sausage.

“I remember making sausage and pepperoni.”

Finally, the two had to concede that they evidently had no large pizza with both sausage and pepperoni to give us, but they would immediately start one. And they offered us the bill so we could go ahead and pay and lessen our extended wait by a few minutes, anyway.

But as we were standing at the cash register, from the kitchen we heard, “So . . . sausage and pepperoni? One sausage, one pepperoni? Oh, on the same pizza?”

Although my husband’s eyes bugged out a little, he waited until we were back in the car to burst into laughter.

So simple. And yet, apparently, so complicated.

Just like life.

Well, my life anyway.

And that’s why I laugh.

 

Over the weekend, we took a trip with my husband’s family to Branson, an outing that included seeing Moses, a live show that includes animals and special effects

While we stood in line waiting to enter our section of the theatre — Section C, my husband leaned towards Younger. “This is the dangerous section, Younger.”

Younger eyed him, having already expressed some concern as to our escape plan if the animals decided to improvise their roles. “Why?”

“Yeah,” my husband told him with confidence. “Didn’t you see all the advertising signs on the way down here? The C’s will part.”

And while my husband inelegantly guffawed at his own play on words, Younger looked at me. “Is he serious? Or is that a bad joke?”

I unclenched my jaw to mutter, “Bad joke.”

My husband nudged him with an elbow. “The seas will part. Get it?”

All these years with his father and Younger still had to ask.

That’s almost as bad as the joke.