Every now and then, rare as Southern snow, I'll sneak to my desk to work when my husband's home. Like bungee jumpers and other crazy people, I take the risk with as much chance of success as a two-day old snowman. So between sentences and lost in happy clicking on the keyboard, I pretended not to notice when he started. I was familiar with the drama.
My husband, whom I love, really, has . . . location issues. He can't find anything. Oh, let me be more specific. He can't find anything other than a deer when it's twelve degrees outside and he's wearing a more expensive wardrobe than L.L. Bean himself. But I digress.
"Where's the camera?" he yelled from downstairs again. "I didn't use it last," I told him, like I always do when he asks me for something *he's* lost.
I hear him bang cabinet doors and unstack papers as if the camera were an errant credit card offer. "What did you *do* with it?" He always blames me.
Premature babies are more easily dissuaded than he is when the frantic hunt begins.
By the third round of questions and the disappointing lack of letters appearing on my screen, I finally gave up and gave in to his plea for help. I looked in the places he already had because I know a camera would score nowhere near180 on the Boone and Crockett scale and therefore fall well below his radar.
We stomped through the house like a game of follow-the-leader. Somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen, aggravated synapses fired and I knew where the camera was, where *he* had left it last. He took off to check out my revelation and returned with the little devil in his hands. I shoved the drawer I was digging in shut. Should have done the same with my mouth. Like a spooked buck, it outran my sense of tact.
"Boy, it'd be nice to only need one brain around here instead of two!"
My words pushed him back a step.
"How long you been saving that one up?"
I think I was more surprised than he was. I honestly don't know what previously unexplored nether regions of my brain the words had been homesteading, but at that moment they came forth with the restraint of young love.
I wonder if the sting of my escapee comment would keep my memory-challenged husband from interrupting me (and blaming me) the next time he lost something. Not to worry, it won't be long until I find out. And I love him, really.
A cheerful heart is good medicine.
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