Nice Pinky Ring

I am whole again, the integral me is back.   Josephine, my house help, found my ring in the living room.  My wife misplaced it for about ten days.

I always leave my ring, together with my watch, on a small table in the TV room.
“That’s funny I can’t find my ring.”
“It must be here.”
“Ok! But where? I have looked and I can’t find it, usually I always leave it on this table.”
“Oh, I took it, and place it ….”
“I don’t remember, I will look for it but I put it in a safe place.”

The first three days, I ask, she looks for it a couple of minutes then go back to her business or watch TV. The fourth day, I re-again ask.
“I think it is lost!” I am very careful not to use YOU with lost.
“I did not lose your ring, I will find it.”  She is annoyed with me now.

Next morning, “Please can you look for my ring or give me an idea where you placed it, and then I will look for it.”
“I don’t know!”  The pitch of the answer, together with her posture throws a misplace guilt feeling on my common senses.
I feel like a guilty dog for her misplacing my ring in a safe place!

The safe place was inside one of the glass of a Moroccan tea set placed in the living room. That’s where Josephine found it.

The ring is the oldest piece of jewelry I own. It belongs to the pinky of my right hand.   Without it my pinky is lonely, they are inseparable friends. Pinky really thought they had departed for ever.

My wife has a bizarre action-then-forget memory program.  The program is fine when it affects her but annoying when it involves other persons.
It affects whom? Me, her husband!

My wife travels a lot, short stay at the most a week.
The TV is not operable without the remote control; I had to rush someone to get it from her, she was already in queue at the airport.

In Egypt, while in transit you must leave your passport with immigration.  She got a major problem at the airport back home. Somehow, her passport was still thousands miles away, waiting for her to pick it up, at the immigration desk in Cairo.
Miracles do happen.  She found her house keys in the overhead compartment of the same aircraft she took a week ago. 
She went to see her mother, who lives about five hundred kilometers from us, and had to return my mobile phone, the next day, via special courier.
She locks the door and goes away with my keys, hers are in her handbag and me, 5 minutes later, outside the door waiting.  I call her and hear her mobile ringing inside the house.
I want to call her, in the shopping mall, while separately doing different things.  I can’t, she has my mobile. The shopping mall is huge.

She exasperate when I ask to give me whatever she holds in her hands and belongs to me.  I can’t help it, I ask because her unusual action-then-forget memory program makes me paranoid. 

She has other strange habits.  In reality, they are more like benign compulsive disorders. She compels to always taste what’s in my plate even when we eat the same thing. She loves sushi in Japanese restaurants but she does not eat raw fish.

For all the years we are married she obsesses on a daily basis, tweezing out “one” facial hair which does not exist. I have never seen the famous odd and lonely facial hair. Sometimes, she shows it to me from the end of the tweezers. I can’t see it.  Then she looks at me with eyes thinking I belong to another planet.  But seriously, I don’t see what she sees.  No one ever has.
I hate to go food shopping with her. She always takes her time looking at the beauty section.  She is done and wants to go, but we have not yet started to shop for food.

She is rude by omission. Again, that’s when the action-then-forget program takes over.  She invites friends for a visit and never offers them anything.  She sits, she talks and the friends wait to find out what the invitation is all about. When she remembers she goes “Oh! I forgot!” but the visit is over.
I never get involved; I used to but got tired of my title being changed from husband’s host to butler.

Also, I fear women in groups. They think as a pack and, early on, learned that no one can reason a mass.
Notice, in clubs, a woman can get up from a table and ask the others women to join her to the lady’s room.
I am a man and cannot ask my fellow-men, on the table, to join me for a wee-wee. I am not a chauvinist nor can I ask men to join me for a wee-wee. Thank you, but I rather manage alone.
When I ask women why they go to bathroom in groups?  They riot against me. I am guilty of not understanding. They make me feel dysfunctional because I don’t understand their act of groupie wee-wee.

I am strong now!  I have my pinky ring!



2 responses to “MY PINKY RING

  1. This is so funny.

  2. Long Live The Pinky Ring!

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