How come I feel like I am doing all the work here

Debbie Ingram/Dothan Eagle

Published: June 8, 2008

Back in the office on Sunday afternoon I am going through BamaJam withdrawals but am glad to be clean and free of those grasshoppers. The husband, the lucky guy, is in his big, green recliner in front of the TV. It’s some big, big chair that seats one mom and two kids or a 6-foot, 6-inch man. The chair has some honking name like “Big Daddy” chair or something. It is “recommended” by some famous NFL players. It is about as wide as the end zone uprights.

Anyway ... You know how when you go on a camping trip, there is always something you forget. And when you get back, there is always something you have lost.

Second day into the BamaJam camping adventure and the husband realizes he has no socks. We get Max O, the photographer at the paper, to make a swing by the house on the way. MY coworker goes out to our house to get MY husband’s socks.

Anything to keep the husband happy. And he is.

When we get back home about mid-day, and after unpacking, mowing, doing a load of wash and getting ready to come into work, I realize I have lost my brush.

I search the camper, the bags, the kitchen. I backtrack my steps and try a few more places in the RV.

“I have lost my round hairbrush,“ I tell the husband. “Have you seen it?“

Heavy, heavy with sarcasm comes the response.

“No, baby, I am sooo sorry, but I have not seen your round hair brush. Did you look in the camper?“

“Of course I looked in the camper. I looked twice in the camper. I looked on the ground to and from the camper. I looked in the dirty clothes, in the bathroom, in the garage. I looked everywhere I have been since I last saw it. I looked places I haven’t been. I looked everywhere. Yes, I looked in the camper.“

Let me point out my aggravation. When HE forgot HIS socks, I made a call to MY co-worker and we got HIM some socks, by george. But my round hairbrush comes up lost and it is not quite so important. It is laughable, he thinks, how seriously I am searching.

“Maybe you left it at BamaJam,“ he says from the recliner, the remote in hand and the air blowing 68 cold degrees in his face.

“I’m going to work,“ I say.

“Bye, baby.“ There is still some laughter in his voice.

“Oh, baby,“ he adds. “Are you gonna put up the lawn mower?“

“I thought you were gonna finish the yard?“ I ask.

“It’s just too hot,“ he says, yawning as I head out the door. “Would you bring me something to eat?“