Sixty seconds! That’s all it took for me to go from a normal, stable woman to being completely insane. I’m a rational individual, except when it comes to idiotic things HIMS do. Most women picture a HIM taking care of them, but when it comes to My Precious, he’s the one who needs custodial care.

Any woman who has a HIM residing in her home knows this fact. You can be completely calm one minute and, after ten seconds of utter nonsense, you are bat shirt crazy. The SILENCE or Village Idiot Look is annoying, but keeping track that HIM doesn’t do something that costs time, or money, takes energy. Let’s not forget selective hearing when there’s work to be done.

For those of you just acquiring a HIM, ideas are contagious. Put two HIMS in the same room and, if one comes up with a stupid idea, the other one catches it within seconds.

Pretending not to notice My Precious let our Great Dane puppy run wild, chewing up half the house, I asked sweetly, “Can you cut the grass and clean the dog pen.” I repeat myself three times, finally get rewarded with a blank stare. My fault, I asked during a football game. Waiting for a commercial, I ask again.

“Can you cut the grass and clean the dog pen?” He turns towards me with the same blank stare, making me wonder if I should check his pupils for a possible stroke.

“Can you cut the grass and clean the dog pen?”
Staring at me with his practiced-until-perfected idiot look, I get no response.

I nudge his leg with my foot, thinking that maybe I’m on to something with the stroke theory.

Finally, an answer. “Huh?”

“Can you cut the grass and clean the dog pen?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the grass,” he mutters.

I notice he’s not slurring his words, which blows my stroke theory to hell. Apparently, he hasn’t noticed that with two Great Danes and a Malamute, things pile up quickly, and in Florida, well, you can watch the grass grow.

“The dog pen? You want me to clean the dog pen.” HIM is bright red, though the flickering hues from the TV make HIM appear more of a purple. I think his rising blood pressure is not a good sign.

“Well, yes,” I reply, trying to sound sweet.

“I don’t do dog crap,” he informs me. He clicks the remote and puts a hockey game inside the football game. I feel myself starting to snap as a football flies one way and a hockey puck another. Breathing deeply, I decide on a different track.

“I packed all day so we’ll be able to move on time. I asked you to lift that heavy, glass tabletop into the truck, but you never came out. I did it myself while you watched TV. After I came in from packing the garage, you were asleep on the couch, letting the puppy have the run of the house. You helped by doing that. The puppy destroyed so many things, we have less to pack.”

I start back to the garage to get the broom to sweep up what had been my six-foot, silk, ficus tree, now reduced to a foot-high stump, teeth marks forming artistic patterns.

“How did you get the glass in the truck?” he asks perplexed.
Notice if you give a HIM a remote, he is able to multi-task; talk, click, and change the subject.

“I couldn’t lift it into the truck, so I crawled in the back. I slid the glass over me, then slithered out underneath, like a snake.” Since the neighbors were HIMS, they found my slithering amusing. You did hear me remind you we’re closing on the house next week?”

He looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads and replies, “I know that! I took vacation this week to help.”

“Tell me again. What you are doing tomorrow?”

“Sleep in,” he replies, yawning, “I’m on vacation.”

“EXCUSE ME?” I shriek, clutching the sofa cushions. I breathe deeply trying to maintain control. I put my head between my knees, thinking I am having that stroke.

“Do the damn backyard!” he shouts, his face turns even redder. He clicks wildly at the remote, turning off the TV. “I’m going to bed.”
Good! I can pack without My Darling clicking away.

As we say in the south, “Tomorrow is another day.” Another day for HIM to drive me insane.

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