Something Missing

Ever hear of the missing link?

Well, I think that the missing link is missing from my husband's head.

It seems that we have the same conversation over and over and over again.  Either hubby is getting selective Alzheimer's disease, or this repeat discussion is just some elaborate practical joke on me.  I wouldn't put it past him.  He does sooooo love a good laugh, and fortunately for him, I frequently provide him with great material.  I mean, who wouldn't love to poke fun at a wife that consistently burns the garlic bread each and every time that she makes it?  Or what about a  vain wife that wears heels that are "too cute" despite the fact that they give her huge weeping blisters?  Seriously, I deserve to be made fun of . . . at times . . . but this ongoing conversation is just a bit too much.

"Annie?  Hon?  Where is the parmesan cheese?"

During this installment of the discussion, I was perched comfortably in our rocker in the living room.  Before I answered, I crept out of the chair slowly and peeked around the corner of the kitchen to see what he was doing.  Hubby was standing,  staring,  mouth a bit agape at the open kitchen cabinet.  His hand was holding the door ajar, but he was not moving.  Just standing.  Staring.

Finally I answered with a question, "Paul? Have you looked for the cheese?"  I already knew what the answer would be.

 "Yes!  I am looking right now."  Except he wasn't.  I was spying on him, and I had caught him, not looking, just staring at an open cupboard.  I tried my sarcastically, sappy voice next.

"Hon . . . have you moved things around or are you just staring at the open cabinet?"

He instantly flushed red, realizing that I had him. "Well . . . no . . ."

I calmly emerged from around the corner, walked over to the cabinet, moved exactly one item, and voila! parmesan cheese.

Then I just looked at him.  Sheepishly, he said, "I know. I know.  You think that I  didn't look."

And that's the conversation we dance around.  If it is not parmesan cheese, it is his blue school shirt. (Never mind that he has probably 50 navy blue school sport shirts.  He needs one particular blue shirt, one that feels different.)  If it's not an item of clothing, it is the broom.  If it is not the broom, it is the nail clippers.  If it is not the clippers, it is some random tool.  You get the idea. It is always something, and  I could go on and on and on.

It makes me wonder if my hubby is just search deficient, or is it men in general?  

Hmmmmmm.

Interesting.

And, in case this is not enough for you to ponder about, I will pose my next quandary.

How is it possible for hubby to find a particular bowl or pot to use in the kitchen, but then, when the time arrives for the said bowl or pot to be put away, he mysteriously develops amnesia and "forgets" where it should go?  His mental deficit apparently applies to looking for an item, and finding a location for an item.  I can not count how many times I have uttered the words, "If you know where it is to use it, why can't you find the place to put it away?"  as I put away a random stack of pans and dishes that are teetering precariously on the edge of the counter top.  The stack that is obviously leftover  after Paul has unloaded the dishwasher.  The stack that he claims that he "doesn't know where they go!"

It has to be a joke.  If not, I am sure to have this conversation many more times . . .

especially when hubby is diagnosed with dementia down the road.

If I'm lucky, I'll be diagnosed too.

That way, I'll forget why I am angry.