Tony is a husband. This means a myriad of things. He is a very hard worker. He is my best friend. He can alleviate my stress in seconds just by listening to what’s worrying me (which, my friends, is a bottomless pit, so extra kudos to him for that.) **applause, applause**
He, however, cannot set the alarm clock (with confidence, anyway), cannot defrost meat in the microwave, and only recently learned how to operate (not load) the dishwasher. Why? Because he has a wife!! I don’t mind one bit. After all, I have only mowed the lawn once in my life, and that was for Father’s Day, I haven’t washed my own car since high school, and have never had to cut down our Christmas tree (wink-wink).
We are a great team. I hurry us out the door to wherever we might be jaunting to, in the hopes that we arrive to our destination NO MORE than half an hour late, and he is the one that remembers a block from home what it was that we forgot (so please be kind should we ever be late to any function you may ever have, as we really do TRY).
Tonight, though, I realized I may be too good of a player on Team J. I was milling about in the kitchen, getting dinner ready, thinking about Mavis’ birthday, worrying about the Mayan calendar, and whatever else my brain could pluck from the universe at that very second for me to fret over. Then Tony comes to me with a query. “Do you know where all my shorts are?” He asks. “They’re in the dryer”… Our eyes meet- I, with my super-human wife powers, can hear that the dryer is still running. I know the next question- I know it SO MUCH that I’m already doing “laundry calculations” in my head. (I note the time, 7pm, I put them in to dry at what, 6:20? And the weight of the cotton/blend of said shorts is pretty heavy…) But during that last nanosecond of calculation, I observe our positions on this domestic playing field. I am in the kitchen, Tony is right in front of the appliance we call a dryer (we call this the iron too, but anyway)…Wait for it, waaait for it, Tony says “Well are they dry?”……. I can’t hold it in; I just start hooting with laughter. “Well, I don’t know! Open that door up and poke your hand in there! If they aren’t dry, you can FEEL it!!!” He had the cutest look on his face, which said, quite plainly, doing that had never occurred to him. I have to wonder, after all these years, how many other “laundry calculations” I have mindlessly rattled off, when really all I needed to do was introduce him to the dryer door and let him know that he too, can check garment dampness! But more importantly, I was flattered. I am, in his eyes, The Balancer of all Domestic Coefficients…. It didn’t occur to him to investigate this matter himself, because I “just know”…… His hand went in for the feel…
Still damp. But he found a pair in the “staging area” (the perpetual pile of washed and dried but waiting to be folded and put away laundry). After being in that staging area, they are wrinkly…. Good thing we are stayin in tonight, cuz (in my best twangy country accent) “if we was goin’ out, he’d hafta throw those puppies in the iron for a bit!”