I am convinced that my husband is trying to drive me crazy. No, I am not paranoid; I have inconvertible proof.  Why else would he leave his dirty socks where they lay literally kissing the clothes hamper yet somehow never making it all the way inside, and his walking away and leaving them like that? It’s also obvious from the drawers and cabinet doors that he leaves open that I constantly close, so as not to bump my head, bang my knees or stub my toe. 

It’s obvious from the trail of breadcrumbs from where he made a sandwich that leads from the kitchen downstairs to the second floor sitting room. And it’s obvious from the wrapper that came off his American cheese slice left on the countertop. Why, if he bent from the waist at a 90-degree angle he could have put it in the trashcan. Of course that would require him to exercise something other than his remote finger. 

Why does he open the refrigerator and lean heavily on the door while trying to decide what there is to eat? This often goes on for five minutes or longer. It’s as if he’s waiting for the left over spaghetti or chicken to announce itself. Would it be too much trouble to open a container and see what’s in it?  Yet no matter how many times I tell him how all these things drive me crazy, it goes into one ear and out the other. 

And he can never ever find anything. For example, one Saturday, he announced that he was going to wash his car and wanted to know if I wanted him to wash mine. This was before Santa Claus bought the car that I am driving today. While I suspected it was all that mud and dirt that was keeping the old one together, I replied yes and thanked him profusely.

“Where is the bucket that I use to clean stuff, he asks?” Where it usually is I answer. Which is in the laundry room where it’s been kept since we moved into this house fourteen years ago. He goes into the laundry room and finds it. Where is that scrub brush? He asks. ‘It’s not in the bucket,’ I counter? I ask this for often items can be right in front of his face and he can’t see them. No, he replies, albeit smugly. I try to remember where I last used it. I believe it was the kitchen.

 “Where are the cloths that I use to wash the car?” he then asks. Exasperated at this point, I ask, ‘Do you live here?’ Everything in our house has its place. Admittedly my memory is not as good as it used to be so trying to remember where I left something frustrates me to no end. He, on the over hand leaves stuff everywhere.

So what’s a poor woman to do after the honeymoon Prozac has worn off? Well, if you’re me: you exhale-- you eat two Butterfingers and repeat as many times as necessary, ‘I’m okay, but boy, does he have some serious issues.’