She denies it, of course, but I have proof.
Circumstantial proof, but proof nonetheless.
You see, whenever I'm looking for something, it's never there. Even when I know it's there, it's not there. Not too long ago I was looking for something in the pantry, but couldn't find it.
"It's in the pantry," my wife told me.
"I'm looking in the pantry," I told her back.
"It's there."
"I don't see it."
"On the right."
"It's not there."
"On the bottom shelf."
"I'm looking on the bottom shelf."
So, with an exaggerated display of irritation at having to have pulled herself away from The Bachelorette, she walked over to the pantry, reached in the far back, and pulled out what I was looking for.
What was it? you ask. It doesn't matter. Try to stay with me.
"You have to look around," she told me, swirling her finger around like she was stirring a cauldron of bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble.
"Why didn't you say it was in the back?" I said, sheepishly.
Trust me, I looked.
It wasn't there.
But somehow, whenever my wife shows up, so does whatever it is I'm looking for. I don't know how she does that. Maybe it's magic, but, even if it is, why does she insist on putting the stuff we use a lot in the back?
"The things we use a lot," I've told her, "should go in the front, where it's easily accessible. And the stuff we don't use a lot should be the things you put in the back, because we only use them a little. I shouldn't have to dig through 50 items to get to the one I want."
My wife will agree with me, and then continue to do things the way she wants.
Take my yogurts. I don't mean take them literally. I mean, take them for example. I enjoy eating one of those little cups of yogurt they sell at your local grocery store. (Yes, I shop at YOUR local grocery store. Don't be shy, come up and say hello. I might need to borrow money. Anyway...) My wife, she buries them in the rear of the refrigerator.
"Why don't you eat your yogurts?" she'll chastise me like a little kid.
"We have yogurts?"
"Yes, they're in the back."
"Of the pantry?"
"Of the fridge."
"When I look in the fridge, I don't see them."
"Well, they're there."
"That's why I don't eat them. It's too much work."
"You have to look around."
Again with the swirling finger.
I'll tell her, "Instead of clumping things together, why don't you just make a single row of my yogurts. Start in the back of the refrigerator and end in the front. You can even stack them. They stack very nicely."
She says she will, but she never does.
What my wife doesn't understand or refuses to understand or doesn't care to understand is if I don't see something, I'm going to assume it's not there. That's a reasonable assumption, I would suppose.
But I think she does it on purpose.
Hide things from me, I mean.
Just when I learn where something is, she moves it. If I want to make an omelet* in the morning, I'll look for the omelet pan in the last place I found it, and magically... it's no longer there. I'll look in three different places before my wife will finally say, "What are you looking for?"
"The omelet pan."
"It's not there."
"I know it's not there."
"Don't you know where it is?"
"I thought I knew where it is, but I guess I don't."
"If you want to know where something is, just ask me."
"I don't want to ask you where something is. I want to know where something is."
So she'll tell me to look in a cabinet I've already searched.
"It's not there, either," I'll inform her.
With a smile on her face, she'll reach into the cabinet and triumphantly pull out the omelet pan. From the back.
"Look around," she'll say.
Raising My Father
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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
*I make a pretty good omelet.
"This omelet is delicious," my father will tell my wife.
"I didn't make it," my wife will tell my father.
"Who did?" he'll ask.
"I did," I'll answer.
I'll wait for the compliment that never comes.
"So..." I'll say, "it's good?"
"It's okay."
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