I can hear the screeches and screaming and laughter from here. I'm not hiding---no, I'm not. Honest. I would never hide from eight little girls all hyped up on sugar and pizza and pop. I'd never sneak up to my bedroom and lock the door behind me.
Ok, I really would.
They're loud. I mean really loud.
And I'm tired. I had four hours of sleep last night and while that used to fly when I was in my teens and twenties, it doesn't so much now that I'm old(er). I'm a serious sleep deficit situation here. It's bordering on the critical. You see, last night when my husband came home from work around 1 a.m. I'd just fallen asleep. He woke me up because he, get this, couldn't find my purse.
Yes, you read correctly. At 1:45 a.m. my husband was tearing the house apart searching for my purse.
"It's downstairs hanging on the shoe-thingy" He went off to look and came back saying it wasn't there. Well, it had to be because the rest of the house (at least the downstairs) was spotlessly clean in preparation for tonight's slumber party fiasco.
There were three loads of clean laundry in our room, so he tossed some of that around and still couldn't locate it.
A few minutes later I heard him on the phone to the pharmacy refilling my perscription with their automated system. He'd found my purse and the pill bottle he'd been searching for. Ahem. Right where I'd told him it was in the first place. Have you ever noticed that males suffer from a testosterone-fueled disability as it regards looking under or behind things in order to find things they're searching for? That's another blog post in and of itself.
I won't tell you just what the Rx was for. Again, that's a wnole 'nother blog post.
So I was awake. Once I go to sleep and am awakened, I do not go back to sleep. Ever. Well, ok, ever is a minor exageration. I eventually drift off after three or four hours. This has happened two or three times in the past week, hence the sleep deficit.
Now because there are screaming prepubescent girls downstairs munching on pizza and popping sweetarts, I can't go to sleep even though I'd dearly LOVE to do so.
Yawn.
Ok, I really would.
They're loud. I mean really loud.
And I'm tired. I had four hours of sleep last night and while that used to fly when I was in my teens and twenties, it doesn't so much now that I'm old(er). I'm a serious sleep deficit situation here. It's bordering on the critical. You see, last night when my husband came home from work around 1 a.m. I'd just fallen asleep. He woke me up because he, get this, couldn't find my purse.
Yes, you read correctly. At 1:45 a.m. my husband was tearing the house apart searching for my purse.
"It's downstairs hanging on the shoe-thingy" He went off to look and came back saying it wasn't there. Well, it had to be because the rest of the house (at least the downstairs) was spotlessly clean in preparation for tonight's slumber party fiasco.
There were three loads of clean laundry in our room, so he tossed some of that around and still couldn't locate it.
A few minutes later I heard him on the phone to the pharmacy refilling my perscription with their automated system. He'd found my purse and the pill bottle he'd been searching for. Ahem. Right where I'd told him it was in the first place. Have you ever noticed that males suffer from a testosterone-fueled disability as it regards looking under or behind things in order to find things they're searching for? That's another blog post in and of itself.
I won't tell you just what the Rx was for. Again, that's a wnole 'nother blog post.
So I was awake. Once I go to sleep and am awakened, I do not go back to sleep. Ever. Well, ok, ever is a minor exageration. I eventually drift off after three or four hours. This has happened two or three times in the past week, hence the sleep deficit.
Now because there are screaming prepubescent girls downstairs munching on pizza and popping sweetarts, I can't go to sleep even though I'd dearly LOVE to do so.
Yawn.
I shouldn't have to do this. You have been living with a man for long enough to have worked these things out for yourselves.
ReplyDelete1) We seldom have trouble finding things that we last used. We kind of remember where we put them.
2) We have no concept of "where stuff belongs". Therefore, if someone of the female persuasion moves stuff that we put somewhere that seemed logical, we will have no clue as to where to look for it.
3) We don't have a driving need to alter the places that things are kept. We will put things back in pretty much the same place each time. Not exactly, but see "1)" above.
4) All of the above applies particularly to the kitchen. Do not ask us to put stuff away if you are anal about it. We will put stuff in pretty much the right cupboard or drawer, but don't expect us to understand why dish A needs to go on top of or at the side of dish B. These concepts are entirely alien.
4) We all (except the most unfortunate) possess one thing that always has a firm idea about where it wants to go, and accommodating this wish is the prime criterion for determining all of our actions. This explains why you have a house full of screaming children.
You should, by now, understand why your husband will never be able to find your purse unaided. Ever.
I hope that this helps.
I am sorry if this comment is in the wrong damn place.
Ah, children.
ReplyDeleteI am so glad mine have grown up.
vicus dear, you're male. Due to his unfortunate state you also suffer from testosterone poisoning and the inability to look under, behind or around objects in order to locate something you need/want/have been sent in search of. It's not your fault.
ReplyDeleteDave, I love children. Honest I do or I wouldn't have had four of them. This slumber party wasn't as bad as some others where the guests threw up all over the place. I count that a success.