Monday, October 26, 2015

Boys Don't Listen

My husband is a good egg. He really is. He's a great dad. He works two jobs to provide for our family. Sure, he reads comic books and he has a metal container full of multi-sided dice (that I don't think I'm supposed to mention, so shhhhh), but I think he spends a lot more mental energy putting up with my quirks than I do with his.

He is not, however, a good listener. Tired of answering questions like "What are we doing this weekend?" I bought a magnetic monthly calendar and slapped it onto the refrigerator door. I make sure it's always up to date.  Of course, this doesn't stop him from asking questions like, "What time are you leaving for church?" (Answer: "The same time I've been leaving for church for nearly a decade now.")

It does get a wee bit frustrating at times. One day last week I needed to take my daughter to the orthodontist at 8:30 a.m. The night before, I told my dear husband that I had turned off the kid's alarm clock and that I would wake her up myself at around 7 a.m.  The next morning, at 6 a.m., he flung open the kid's bedroom door, turned on her light, and notified me that our daughter wasn't up yet. Grrrrr.

Do you know how many times I've announced, "I'm going to the gym!" only to return home to have him ask, "Where'dja go? The grocery store?"

When I need to tell him something really important, I usually require eye contact and then quiz him on what I've just said. My other beef relates to his information gathering skills. This is why I don't send the guy solo to parent-teacher conferences. He would surely come back with no information at all, outside of confirmation that our daughter is indeed in fifth grade and does, in fact, have a teacher.

I've had 23 1/2 years to get used to my husband's brain and how it works, so I usually don't get too bothered by the whole not-listening-and-not-asking-questions thing. However, I guess my sub-conscious is a little more upset about it.  I had this dream the other night:

I was in the hospital having some sort of surgery. My sleeping brain didn't tell me what kind of surgery it was, so I assume it an exploratory surgery or a relatively minor fix of some sort. When I got out of surgery, the nurse gave a post-op information sheet to my husband. We then went home. I asked him to let me see the document so he handed it over. The document diagnosed me thusly: "Terminilly Ill." 

"This says I have a terminal illness," I said. "Are you sure it's from the doctor? It seems weird that a doctor would misspell the word 'terminal.'"

"Yes, it's definitely from the doctor," he confirmed, nodding.

"Well, what kind of terminal illness do I have?" I asked. I was understandably upset.

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask." 

I'd like to think this scenario would not actually happen. But my unconscious mind, clearly, is not so sure.


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