Saturday, August 29, 2009

In which I take entirely too long to get to the point, which is that I was wrong and my husband was right

I love crossword puzzles. You might even call it an unholy obsession. It is a deep enough passion that I regularly risked my mother's ire by finishing the crossword in the daily newspaper before she got home from work. And my handwriting was atrocious, so she couldn't finish any clues I couldn't solve, even she had wanted to. She played the "it's my paper, I paid for it" card, so I had no choice but to continue solving the puzzles, only using very light pencil. Sometimes it is a mighty fine thing that your architect father has an electric eraser.

About a year ago, my husband bought me a Nintendo DS, and the heavens opened, the NY Times Crossword Puzzles game. I began dreaming in crosswords, much the way you do when you play too much Tetris. My children went shoeless, snackless, clothesless, while I searched for a 15 letter phrase that meant the opposite of abandoned.

In addition to this crossword thing, there is one other thing you need to know about me. I lose things. All the time. Rory once missed school because I couldn't find my car keys. Once, those damn keys remained lost for over a year, only to turn up in a box of screwdrivers in the closet under the stairs.

So I lose things. I'm good at it. And it drives Tyler crazy. Because he sets up systems, places for me to put my shit so that I won't lose it, and I still lose it. Like that day that Rory missed school? The car keys were hanging from the purse hook and not the key hook. It took me 2 hours to find them.

About 5 months ago, Tyler borrowed my DS game system. And that was the last day I saw my beloved game.

I had it. He took it. And it was gone.

So logically, my mind went like this: You lost my game.

And I may have told others that he lost my game. Even after he tore the house apart looking for it, while I sat aside, secure in my belief that the last person who touched it was him.

I know, you can see where this is going, can't you?

On our recent vacation, Tyler insisted that I buy 2 new games - Scrabble (so that my sister and I could attempt to for once play a non-full-body-contact version of the game, although he did permit us to throw things at each other) and the USA Today Crossword Puzzles game. "It's no NY Times," he said, "But it's better than what you have now."

Because my husband is a good man.

Maybe I bitched and moaned and made parenthetical comments about how I wouldn't need this new game if someone hadn't lost my other, perfect game.

Maybe I don't deserve him.

Because when we got home, he had occasion to look for something in the death pit I call my purse. What was that bag that Hermione gave everyone in Book 7? That holds entirely more than it should be able? That's my purse.

And while checking all 32 pockets in that purse, Tyler found my game.

Of course he did.

So to my husband, I apologize. I apologize for every time I accused you of losing my game. Both to your face and behind your back. You were right - you gave it to me, and I lost it. And while you insisted it was somewhere on my Bermuda Triangle of a desk, you were still right.

Mark down the date and time, because I don't easily admit that. Like, ever.

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