So a couple weeks ago Roscoe was sitting on the couch and I stood directly in front of him. This is generally a sign that I’m going to ask him to do a man job. Man jobs in our house are classified as tasks that require power tools or lifting. It’s not that I can’t use power tools or lift things, the trouble is I don’t want to, so essentially that means that I won’t.
So there I am standing in front of Roscoe with a look on my face that those closest to me know is generally followed by a lot of grief on their part. Roscoe looks up and is not happy. This may be partially because he doesn’t want to use power tools or lift things (I know I never want to) but I suspect it’s because he’s still annoyed at me for dying his feet purple this past weekend.
In my defense, it was only part of his feet, the soles specifically and I also dyed my arms a bright violet up to the elbows, along with the majority of our bathroom. I had neglected to clean the tub before Roscoe needed to shower and hence, purple feet.
The Great Unwashed with a most innocent and endearing look on her face –“I dropped a book behind the bookshelf.”
Roscoe not being taken in by the seemingly angelic face The Great Unwashed is making –“What kind of book?”
The Great Unwashed –“A book I don’t want to read.”
Roscoe now returns his focus to his computer. The Great Unwashed continues to stand in front of him with a look of unconvincing sweetness on her face. Roscoe, realizing that this issue may not be over sighs and closes his laptop.
The Great Unwashed– “It may have been a library book.” Pauses. “ That’s overdue.” Pauses again as Roscoe starts to frown. “ By a lot.”
Roscoe sighing heavily and with a note of resignation – “Which bookshelf?”
The Great Unwashed– “The smaller one.”
Now I knew that the book wasn’t behind the smaller one, but I was hoping that if Roscoe moved the smaller one he might be able to reach the book I dropped behind the larger one without having to move it.
Roscoe grunts and complains about my choice of storage places for my library books but in a couple of minutes he moves the smaller bookshelf, reaches behind and hands me a hardcover.
The Great Unwashed – “Thank you, but that’s not my book, although this is another library book.” Roscoe is looking unimpressed at this point.
Roscoe– “That’s the only one behind there.”
The Great Unwashed in the most innocent manner possible– “It *might* have fallen behind the big bookshelf.”
More grunting. Annoyance in now radiating off of Roscoe from the top of his head down to his purple soled feet.
Finally, Roscoe with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice- “There are no books behind here.”
The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Oops!”
The book that I supposedly dropped turned up the next day. It was stuck in between the bedside table and the box spring. However three weeks ago I remember dropping two things behind the larger bookshelf. I blame the invisible house gnomes for moving one of my library books without asking permission. As for Roscoe the purple eventually washed off however he was forced to wear black socks and shoes for about two weeks to cover up the colour. I told him it was the price of being married to a beautiful, resourceful woman. (I was dying a shirt to give it a new lease on life.) He told me that I was a pain in the butt.