Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Sock it to me

Kyle and I are ALWAYS in a hurry, mainly because his sense of time is like my sense of direction, except worse. I can find my way around if a map's handy, but Kyle apparently never learned how to tell time. I credit this deficiency to two factors:

1. He used to simultaneously play and broadcast his own football games in his backyard, himself playing I guess 23 characters, thereby developing a world of his own in which he created generous time restraints, which in turn were probably influenced by No. 2:

2. His best friend as a young-youngster was literally his dog. And dogs operate on a different timetable from us humans. This is a very confusing timetable, mind you, because I Googled "dog years," and Wikipedia gave me some sort of graph that hasn't helped me figure out Kyle. This is unfortunate, because I don't know why when I say this: "Hey Kyle, we need to leave for X in EIGHT MINUTES." He translates it to: "Wow, that's enough time to shave, shower, dry a load of laundry and play hide-and-go-seek with the DOG." But Kyle obviously can't live up to this warp-speed mentality even though he THINKS he can, so we're about 52 minutes late to everything because my powers of persuasion don't work on those who are operating under the canine influence.

Combine this false sense of reality with a crazy-good ability to misplace things, and we're now about, oh, 90 minutes late to everything.

Like Monday. We're already, you guessed it, running a little late, and Kyle needs his cleats for his softball game.

"They're not in my truck [where they stay permanently]," he says. "I just looked. Where ARE they?!!!"

"They should be in your truck. That's where they stay permanently," I comment.

"They're not in there," he yells with his fists in the air. "I DISTINCTLY remember bringing them into the house, and thinking that that was a dumb idea, and then not paying attention to where I set them down."

I poke around the closet for a moment and then sneak outdoors, where I see that the cleats are nestled on the truck's floorboard.

I return indoors to tell him as much. "Do you have some socks?"

"They're in the truck," he says. "I just now put them in there when I was looking for the shoes."

OK. So I head back to the truck in good faith, trying to be a doting and supportive wife who trusts her husband's word above any other.

"Oops! I DISTINCTLY remember putting them RIGHT HERE," he points to the console and scurries into our yellow house to retrieve a different pair of socks from the ones he had previously planned to take. The others, at this point, are apparently still MIA.

I had forgotten about the lost socks till we got home that night and I glanced upward while heading for the bathroom:

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That is where he stuck his socks. Wedged between the bathroom and the cat's bedroom, 1.5 feet below the ceiling. It is an absentmindness that's characteristic of a special breed. Maybe it isn't as bad as wrapping one's keys in painter's tape and tossing them into the woods, but at least I'm not alone.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Super clean

Tonight at Kyle's softball game that wasn't, all us wives were chatting, and the conversation veered toward dry-cleaning. This is where I tried to mentally check-out of the conversation, because my household's idea of "dry-cleaning" is throwing clean but wrinkly clothes into the dryer, taking them out and then sort of waving them through the air.

The moral of this story is that while our friends are attributing hundreds of dollars monthly to Comet Cleaners and wearing their freshly pressed suits to work, Kyle and I spend our evenings playing old-school Super Mario Bros.

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Kyle, Kyle makes me smile

Me: "Gee. I sure wish I could be a model," while looking at The Limited flier showcasing a girl looking seductively professional in her too-tight suit. Yes, I do wish I could somehow look like that in a suit.
Kyle, very matter-of-factly: "You are a model."
Kyle again: "You're a model citizen."

Kyle's doing some work. I walk into the living room, where he's working, and say:
"Hey there, busy bee."
Kyle: "Bzzzzz. Bzzzzyyyy."
Obviously I have to use this as blog fodder, since I've already broken my two-week-long vow to blog, so I go to the hall closet to retrieve my computer.
I'm greeted with this as I walk back into the living room: "Bzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzyyyy Beeeeeeeee."

Friday, June 22, 2007

Hey, hey stupid

I'm going to be writing here every single day for the next two weeks. Maybe longer.

No, I don't really have much of anything to say, except that just when you're beginning to think that God dislikes you, that you've been shunned from his arms, and that you're perhaps the most negative person in his creation and that your chronic negativity and penchant for beating yourself up is probably exactly WHY you think God has disowned you, he whispers in your ear that, hey, I DO listen to you, I DO care about the desires of your heart, and, well, will you please start believing that?

And I humbly, nay ashamedly, say I'm sorry and crawl back into his arms. And it feels like home, because it is.