Special Needs Husband

Recently one of my old neighbors in Dallas, not knowing that I had a dog named Ranger and a husband who makes loud noises while playing on the floor with the dog, told me that she thought that "someone with a dog named Ranger has a special needs child in our neighborhood. I hear them trying to put that poor child to bed every night and there is this awful screaming noise coming from their house." I had to burst her bubble and let her know that Ranger is my dog, I don't have a special needs child, but I do have a husband. I remember one of my mom's friends explaining to me when I was a child that the y-chromosome is basically a defective x-chromosome. I was always a good biology student, but that explanation didn't really carry much significance to me at the age of until I got married...and realized how true it really is. Some things I would really like to know from the genetic scientists are:


1. Why is it that when my husband can't find his shoes (and instantly blames me for moving them) that 9 times out of 10, they are located squarely in front of the last place he was sitting on the couch?


2. Why is it that he can never find the remote even though I am pretty much never allowed the opportunity to touch it, let alone devise a plot to hide it?


3. Why is it that his sports equipment (which could use their own smelly zip code) is allowed to ooze out over every surface of every room in my house and all of my fabulous possessions are considered "too much crap we barely ever use" ?


4. Why is it that my husband, who could sell ice to 9 Eskimo jurors in a court of law can't pack moving boxes worth a damn? Seriously -- we just moved and he literally packed a bowl full of change ($150-worth) on top of some of my nice holiday serving pieces and my favorite soup tureen without any sort of bubble wrap -- not so much as a piece of newspaper. And as it happens, ALL of the casualties of our move happened to be MY things, and all were in boxes packed by my husband. Can you imagine what would have happened if I had broken one of his tennis rackets?


5. Why, for the love of Buddha, can the man not learn to put down the damn toilet seat? I've asked nicely, demanded, pleaded, scolded, and have still not had any sort of improvement in that department despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that I have fallen in the toilet multiple times in the middle of the night.


6. Why is it that a man who wore a brown belt with black shoes not so long ago and who needs help picking out a tie every morning feels like he has some sort of standing to critique my ensembles?


7. Why is it that he has no problem commenting on how gorgeous Heidi Klum is every time he sees her on television but can't muster even the most insincere compliment for me?


8. Why is it that hell would have to freeze over before he helps me clean the bathroom but has no problem chastising me for offenses like leaving an errant sweatshirt on the back of the sofa or allowing my mail to pile up?


I'm sure I could go on, but it's almost time for my much-needed happy hour.