Sunday, my stepmom & sis came over for our annual Austrian-pastry-frying session. It's a several-hour process and we've got our roles figured out to a tee. (Side note: I've never understood the "tee" in this expression. Is it like a golf tee? A tee shirt? Or what? It doesn't make sense. And I said it anyway. I'M JUST ONE OF THE WORKER BEES, I SERVE THE QUEEN!!!) So while me and the ladies are frying stuff, hubs generously offered to complete a project that I have been wanting done in the house for a couple of months. It was really important that this was done by SUNDAY. Crucial, even. After all, where's a girl to hang her scarves when she runs out of space? Only on an awesome, $5 wall-rack made of curtain rods; the idea of which was obtained (obviously) from Pinterest! I had purchased the supplies and was ready to hang scarves, I just needed to wait until the rods were installed, and Sunday was The Day. I was elbows deep in powdered sugar, enjoying girl talk, when hubs came into the kitchen and was all like "Hey honey....where did you put the Dremel?" Now, I didn't used to know what a Dremel was. Actually, I mostly still don't know what a Dremel is. I just know it's a crucial tool needed to complete my crucially important project, and now...it's missing. Crapola. And I probably moved it and forgot where I put it. Why, you ask? Clutter makes me more insane than I usually am (and for some reason this silly Dremel is ubiquitous in my household). Some other unsuspecting item will be sitting around, not doing anything useful, and then I have a minor spaz-attack and decide that the offending item must be stashed out of sight. Immediately. That's usually how I start cleaning the house. Hiding all the clutter like some kind of wild animal stashing its fresh, steaming, and very dead prey, to be consumed at a later date. Except, UNlike a wild animal, I can never remember where anything is hidden. Fortunately, my hidden items do not consist of rotting animal flesh.
I've gotten off track again. Anyway, so by then my mind was completely CONSUMED with finding this cursed Dremel. Hubs had dissected half the house and the shed looking for it, and even gone up into the attic and into the *shudder* basement, which I fondly refer to as the "serial killer cellar". Because if one was a serial killer, this is the cellar in which bodies would be stashed, guaranteed. I tore apart the closets, looked under the beds, and searched all the places that you would never stash a Dremel, unless you are me. No luck. No dice, baby. Then it got to the point where I was really super annoyed that we have no clue where this thing is, and it was all I could think about. And then I got annoyed at myself for obsessing about a stupid tool. HEY UNIVERSE, I'M TRYING TO HAVE GIRL TALK HERE...THOUGHTS OF MANLY TOOLS BANISHED! Not working. I kept finding myself wandering off every few minutes after sudden epiphanies were born. Oh my God, the Dremel is in the cabinet with the crackers, awkward ceramic plate and the art supplies! (Sadly, we do have a cabinet with all of these things contained within. Except for, rather unfortunately, THE DREMEL.)
We never did find the Dremel that day. Or the next day. Today, though, the puzzle pieces finally fell into place. Tonight was our night to open Christmas presents. Hubs and I usually have to try and trick each other when giving gifts, because we spend an inordinately long period of time each year shaking, handling, and guessing what treasures could be hiding within the mysterious wrapping. We resort to wrapping a tiny gift in a huge box, or weighing down a light gift with something heavier (WHAT?? SOCKS? I THOUGHT THIS WAS THE LIMITED EDITION, COMPLETE DVD COLLECTION OF MY LITTLE PONY! THIS IS THE WORSE CHRISTMAS EVER!) That said, there was a really big box for me under the tree, and OH BOY was it heavy. I eagerly tore into it, peered inside...and saw the Dremel, safely nestled in its oh-so-familiar blue carrying case. WHAT. The HECK.
"Uh......the Dremel?" I said, stupidly, not comprehending. I pulled it out of the box and it dangled from my hand like the smug little tool that it is. Chris about fell off the couch laughing. Oh yes. Of COURSE he used it to weigh down my gift. And then proceeded to completely forget. Ironically, I never even touched the box to try and guess what was inside.
I was so relieved that my crucial project could be resumed that I totally forgot to be mad about being falsely accused of losing the darn Dremel. Well played, husband. WELL PLAYED. What's that, you say? You can't find the other half of your leftover steak? Well gosh, I don't know. Only wild animals can remember where stuff like that is stashed.
