The longer I am married, the more apparent it becomes, that I am very dependent on my wife.
I was single for quite awhile before I married Holly and got along vey nicely.
I lived outside of a large city in a nice little community.
There was an old victorian style house that had been made into apartments.
I lived on the second floor, with a great view of the city park and the lake that bordered it.
In the downstairs apartment was an elderly female, who for the most part kept to herself.
I made out just fine, except for the occasional times when in the middle of the night, she would begin playing an old organ she had in her parlor.
That will get your attention quickly.
I maintained the lawn, paid my bills, washed dishes, and cooked my own meals.
This month, Holly and I will have been married for 20 years, and I become more dependent on her as the years go by.
Recently, she made a trip to Conway, Arkansas to be with her parents. Her absence in my life was quite the eye-opener.
I can still use the grill, but meal prep in the kitchen has been a struggle.
I have discovered there are many items that will explode in the microwave.
I have melted plates and bowls in the dishwasher.
I have completely sucked up a throw rug in the vacuum cleaner that took awhile to pry from its clutches.
While doing laundry I have not lost a sock, but I have lost three entire pairs of socks!
I have searched everywhere and, believe me, they have pulled a Houdini. Those socks are in the twilight zone.
I pulled out one of her recipe books a week ago and try to prepare a dish that required brown sugar.
I texted her and asked if we had brown sugar. She assured me we did. In fact she informed me we have two bags.
I searched every cupboard, every closet. I even looked in the garage. No brown sugar.
I swear I though I heard laughter coming from the sock drawer.
Finally, in desperation, I called her.
She told me exactly which cupboard to look in. She directed me to pull out an entire row of packaged pecans, slide over a seasoning rack, look behind two bottles of Karo syrup, and indeed there the elusive bags of brown sugar were.
Thank you, dear. I couldn’t have done it without you.
As I closed the cupboard, I thought I saw, nestled in between the bags of sugar, just the tiniest tip of a blue sock.
I’m sure the sock drawer was laughing.
See you out there.
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