“Hey Sweetie, do you have the original copy of your will handy?”
I am searching for items that should be in our safety deposit box. I need to meet one of our older kids at our bank to have them added as a signed and keyed boxholder with Steve and I in case of an emergency. As I dig through strangely filed paperwork in our office, I hear rustling from the livingroom, but no answer from my spouse.
I descend the stairs and whip around the corner to see The Hubster sitting in his recliner, magazines in hand and a quizzical look on his face.
“How can you have an original copy of something?” asks He.
I sense a circuitous debate in the offing, so I switch subjects.
“Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. Can you set the table for me, please? I’m running down to the bank, picking Manlet up from baseball practice and will be home in twenty minutes or so,” I respond, now half way out the door. I can always take his will down to the bank on a different day. I don’t think our house will burn to the ground in the next week or so before Steve’s permanent demise occurs.
Unless he does sets the house on fire, in which case I probably would kill him.
As I pull the door shut I can hear some sort of mumblings from Hubby, but I am on a mission and don’t have time to decipher. I will most likely find out when I return, as he tends to take a while in his ramblings.
Sure enough, when I return to the kitchen, Steve is still setting the table.
“What do you want to drink with dinner,” asks He, “And what size glass do you want?”
“Ice water, please, and the biggest glass,” I say as I start dishing up dinner onto platters and into serving bowls, then dashing them into the diningroom.
On my second trip back into the kitchen I see Steve finish filling two medium sized glasses with ice and water. Since I had just heard Manlet ask for orange juice, I questioned who the extra glass of ice water was for.
“You!” says He.
“But I wanted the really big glass, Dear!” I respond.
“This is the biggest glass we have!” proclaims The Hubster.
I walk over to the cabinet and pull out a monster glass that holds about twentytwo ounces. I hand it to Steve, telling him that I meant one of these.
“BUT THAT’S PLASTIC!” he erupts. “YOU SAID GLASS!”
Oh Lordy. Here we go again.
“Sweetie, when I say ‘glass’ I don’t necessarily mean the material. Glasses can be made out of many different things. I would like to drink out of this for dinner tonight.”
“So we can always use plastic at dinner time? So I can put these exact plastic drinkware items out when we have people over for Easter or Christmas dinner? You are saying that II can use whatever items I want to set the table with whenever I want?”
He’s on a roll now. It’s been a long day and I’m not up to his debates. I try to explain that it’s situational, like when he wears slacks and dress shirts to work, except occasionally on Fridays when he can wear jeans and tee shirts. He just doesn’t get it.
Then I try a simple, “How about I set the items that I want on the table right here on the counter for you? Would that help?”
Now very angry, and probably frustrated with the misunderstanding, The Hubster roars his disapproval, accusing me of trying to ‘control’ everything all the time. He stomps out of the room.
I sigh as I sit down with Manlet to eat. I am weary. Perhaps I can laugh later.