Things I Do to Amuse Myself

There are few things that bring me greater joy than annoying the Husband. Sometimes he does something to irritate me (like not putting the baby latches on the cabinets for months) and I have to do something to irritate him. Sometimes, I need no provocation.

Sometimes, I just need a roll of velcro tape and five pair of freshly laundered pants, home from the dry cleaners.

Katie and I are standing in the closet, velcroing the crotches of my husband's pants together and thinking about him putting them on and I get the wheezy Muttley laugh. The very best scenario is if he can convince himself that the dry cleaner is the one who put the velcro in the crotches. The very very best scenario would involve him going down to the cleaners and demanding answers. I might have to hide in the bushes and take pictures if that happens.

Then we wait. It takes almost a week for him to get to the pants. I'm standing in the kitchen this morning, listening carefully and trying to keep quiet. I hear him go into the closet.

Rrrrriiiiippppp. "Well, that is bizarre. Kelly! This is bizarre."

He walks into the kitchen holding his pants up.
"This is weird. My pants came back from the dry cleaner with the crotch velcro'd together."
"That is weird."
"Did you do this?"
"Why would I do that? That is very strange."
(Now, I am laughing, but trying not to laugh too much, while maintaining an appropriate look of confusion.)

So he puts them on, and pats the velcro crotch down, and says "I don't get it."
"Are you going to leave it in there?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Are they all like that?"
"Oh, I don't know. I hope not."

We walk into the closet and he discovers that they are all like that.
"Maybe they mixed up your order with someone else."
"Maybe someone who can't work a zipper. I hope they didn't charge us. Do you have the receipt?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Next time you are in there, you need to check and make sure that we weren't charged."

And then he went off to church. I know he's sitting there right now, trying to listen but distracted by his velcro crotch. For that, I feel bad. But not too bad. Maybe I'll confess when he gets home - or maybe I'll just wait and let him read this.