One Pair of Scissors, Two Sets of Keys, and a Uterus Transplant Please
I did not lose the car keys; however, they do seem to have disappeared, and they seem to have disappeared some time while I was responsible for them. On Friday, after leaving Mr Z at the airport, I got into the driver's seat, and sometime between the moment I got into the driver's seat and the time he returned on Sunday, the keys, his set of keys, the set of keys that includes the key that unlocks his office door, just vanished.
I don't lose things. There's a very good reason why I don't lose things, too. I don't lose things because not losing things allows me to assume an air of superiority when Mr Z loses something. He loses things on a daily basis. I never lose things. Ever.
Mr. Z has learned, over the years, that nothing gets my eyeballs rolling and my ears smoking like the phrase, "Have you seen my __________?" Perhaps if he were organized, and only lost an item occasionally, I wouldn't get so steamed; but, it's a daily occurrence.
Yesterday he lost the scissors. Mr Z was wrapping a Christmas gift on the kitchen counter (it was not a gift for me). The scissors were on the counter, inches from his right hand, in plain view, and he says, "Oh, I need scissors. Have you seen the scissors?" I handed him the scissors. Our eyes met. I gave him The Look. I said, "Are you ready for the tape, because the tape's just as difficult to find, and I really should be starting dinner soon."
This morning, while I was trying to avoid getting out of bed (not because I'm depressed, but because if I stay in bed I won't be tempted to nip out back for a cigarette, so staying in bed has become a big part of my smoking cessation plan. Really, I'm not depressed), Mr Z came in, clearly exasperated, because he couldn't find the second set of car keys and he was already five minutes late for taking Beanpole to school.
He was using a tone. The tone seemed to imply that if I hadn't "lost" the first set of keys (I did not lose them; they disappeared. How can he not know the difference?), he would not have lost the second set of keys. The truth is, he had already lost the second set of keys, back when the second set of keys was the first set. I found the first set one day while doing laundry. I pocketed the new second set without telling him, thinking it would make him more careful with what he should have believed to be the only set of keys. I was warm, and dozy, and naked under the comforter, and he was using a tone that implied that since I caused this sudden outbreak of losing keys, I should get my lazy ass out of bed and help him search.
I said, "Either lose the tone, or I'm not getting up."
While he was in his closet looking through the pockets of yesterday's trousers (why don't men wear their pants more than once before laundering them? He's not digging ditches or cleaning sewers; he's sitting behind a desk, so why can't he wear his trousers two or three times before laundering them? Isn't that why underwear was invented?), I lept out of bed and grabbed the Top Secret Third Key. It's a valet key that only operates the ignition and the door lock. It's useless for the trunk. If the valet wants to steal something from the trunk, he pretty much has to drive off with the entire car. Anyway, naked and glaring, I held out the valet key and told him, "If you lose this, I will kill you."
The former Mrs Mr Z had the same problem with Mr Z losing things. She claims that the uterus is actually a homing device, capable of finding all manner of lost objects. While I did not lose the keys, I can't seem to find them, either set, which leads me to believe I need a uterus transplant.
I don't lose things. There's a very good reason why I don't lose things, too. I don't lose things because not losing things allows me to assume an air of superiority when Mr Z loses something. He loses things on a daily basis. I never lose things. Ever.
Mr. Z has learned, over the years, that nothing gets my eyeballs rolling and my ears smoking like the phrase, "Have you seen my __________?" Perhaps if he were organized, and only lost an item occasionally, I wouldn't get so steamed; but, it's a daily occurrence.
Yesterday he lost the scissors. Mr Z was wrapping a Christmas gift on the kitchen counter (it was not a gift for me). The scissors were on the counter, inches from his right hand, in plain view, and he says, "Oh, I need scissors. Have you seen the scissors?" I handed him the scissors. Our eyes met. I gave him The Look. I said, "Are you ready for the tape, because the tape's just as difficult to find, and I really should be starting dinner soon."
This morning, while I was trying to avoid getting out of bed (not because I'm depressed, but because if I stay in bed I won't be tempted to nip out back for a cigarette, so staying in bed has become a big part of my smoking cessation plan. Really, I'm not depressed), Mr Z came in, clearly exasperated, because he couldn't find the second set of car keys and he was already five minutes late for taking Beanpole to school.
He was using a tone. The tone seemed to imply that if I hadn't "lost" the first set of keys (I did not lose them; they disappeared. How can he not know the difference?), he would not have lost the second set of keys. The truth is, he had already lost the second set of keys, back when the second set of keys was the first set. I found the first set one day while doing laundry. I pocketed the new second set without telling him, thinking it would make him more careful with what he should have believed to be the only set of keys. I was warm, and dozy, and naked under the comforter, and he was using a tone that implied that since I caused this sudden outbreak of losing keys, I should get my lazy ass out of bed and help him search.
I said, "Either lose the tone, or I'm not getting up."
While he was in his closet looking through the pockets of yesterday's trousers (why don't men wear their pants more than once before laundering them? He's not digging ditches or cleaning sewers; he's sitting behind a desk, so why can't he wear his trousers two or three times before laundering them? Isn't that why underwear was invented?), I lept out of bed and grabbed the Top Secret Third Key. It's a valet key that only operates the ignition and the door lock. It's useless for the trunk. If the valet wants to steal something from the trunk, he pretty much has to drive off with the entire car. Anyway, naked and glaring, I held out the valet key and told him, "If you lose this, I will kill you."
The former Mrs Mr Z had the same problem with Mr Z losing things. She claims that the uterus is actually a homing device, capable of finding all manner of lost objects. While I did not lose the keys, I can't seem to find them, either set, which leads me to believe I need a uterus transplant.
posted by Jennifer at 1:39 PM
5 Comments:
my dh doesn't actually lose thing so much as glance into a room, fail to see them, and then ask where they are. Of course, glancing into a room will work if you are looking for the couch, but not so much if it is perhaps keys for which you are searching.
and I have corroboration for your key disappearance story. When I was leaving for college, my father drove me to the airport. Because it was a momentous occasion, he was actually planning to park the car and come in, which proved very handy. I had looked at my ticket in the car, but upon arrival at the desk it was gone. And I do mean gone, as in *never ever showed up again* gone. My father looked everywhere in the car, we searched my bags together, and it never did show up. No one ever tried to use it, either. Gone gone gone.
Your keys vaproized, I know it to be true.
Your Uterine Locating Device is not defective. You will find those keys long before he does!
I lose things all the time, ask my husband.
I lose them because I put them somewhere sensible and then he or the kids comes along and swipe them out of the way for their own stuff, on account of 'somewhere sensible' being premium space in this house and I and my possessions mere wallpaper. See theres this gene on his side of the family that affects sight - anything thats not his, or that hasnt moved for five minutes, is invisible. Hasnt seen it, didnt move it, has no idea how it ended up in his sock drawer, etc etc.
So you see, he's perfect and rational and organised. Its just so terribly frustrating for him to live in a house with me, because whatever it is and whoever put it down, you can bet your sweet life that I lost it.
Oh yes, the pelvic honing device. I have one of those myself, and yet I lose things all day long, every day. Damn it, mine clearly doesn’t work very well.
I can lose my glasses on my head. I lose my keys every morning, it’s one of the reasons I’m always a couple of minutes late. I lose my to do lists amongst the mounds of crap on my desk. I’m hopeless. I’ve learned to compensate, if I have something that’s really important, I’ll tell a buddy where I put it, usually then I can remember, probably because I have insurance.
Mike doesn’t lose HIS stuff. Nope, never. So that’s not a problem, what is a problem is when he needs something that isn’t HIS, like a pair of scissors, a brush, a particular pan, a paint brush, anything and everything that he cannot fit into his little ditty bag, he expects for me to fetch and bring to him.
I don’t much like his little game of fetch. He asks for something, I tell him where it is most likely and he’s like, “What the frap did you put it THERE for, and I need for you to get it for me, I’ll never find it in this illogically disorganized mess.” Pftt whatever butt hole.
I’ve offered to let him reorganize the entire house, no big deal. Funny he has never taken me up on it.
I don't even have utie anymore and I'm expected to be able to find everything. Without Utie, I'm not as good at it as I used to be... Maybe you do need a transplant. Sorry, but this is my diagnosis. Hell, I need a transplant...no I don't, I don't miss it at all!
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