ahream

Me: “Honey, the sheets are in the dryer. Could you fold them please?”

Husband: “Ooookay.”

Toddles off to the bedroom carrying the baskets. Film fades to black. Credits roll.

Scene two, the next day, fade in.

No sheets in the linen closet. Odd.

Apparently one must specify to the species husband-sapien that folded sheets don’t actually walk into the linen closet on their own.

I go looking for the sheets. I find the sheets. I am sorry I found the sheets.

Monkeys – actual, literal monkeys – could’ve done a better job. They looked like he’d been trying a new, experimental folding technique that somehow involved a hand mixer, a blindfold and a giant fan.

I send him an instant message.

Me: “Did you look at the pile when you were done and think, ‘looks good’?”

Him: (in complete sincerity) “Ya.”

Okay, you know when the cat kills something gross and furry and bleeding and then drags it through the window and arranges it on the bed as a present?

Nobody told me husbands were going to do that...

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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