The other day I told Hubby that I found it irksome to step on the sharp little bolts he pockets at work when they escape from his pants at night. It's a classic case of man-habit, to load up on matches, or screws, lighters, wire twists, what ever...then dump them or not at the end of the day, to have this detritus rolling around the wooden floors at night to catch tender feet. I have been observing closely for some time, enough to be a middling authority on man-habits, and we're not talking just toilet seats left up and sauce lids lost here and there. No. Both the men in my house leave the seats down, but one considers a complete meal to be a hunk of meat the size of his head and the other tunes me out when I issue directives. "Please don't run the water in that sink, there's a shot glass stuck in the drain!", was ignored as I repeated it over and over as the sink overflowed whilst the deaf-to-me man washed his dishes...I asked the one to whom I am married about man-habits and he acknowledged the piles of dirty socks and underpants in the corners. The other, Mr. Beetz, pontificated about the trouble he would catch from his wife when he forgot their anniversary. Wow. I didn't think they had been married long enough to celebrate one, but it was so long ago. Where is Mrs. Beetz, anyway? Why does she not come back after thirty years to reclaim him? I been waitin'.
