The man who delivers

The other day I walked down the hall only to find a daddy longlegs sprawled out on the floor.  “Did you kill a mosquito and leave it on the floor?” I called out to the Reporter.  That’s his usual M.O., report the mess and leave it for me, hence the nickname Reporter. 

“No,” he called back.  “Did you mean the mosquito?”

I could have sworn I’d heard that somewhere, but maybe it was my imagination.

“Ye-a-a-h,” I answered with a “duh” drawl in my voice.

“I saw it,” he admitted.  “I thought it just dropped dead on its own.”

“So you saw it, and didn’t take care of it?”

“I was going to,” he said.

“When,” I asked.

“When the Angels win the pennant,” he answered.

“They’ve already won the World Series in my lifetime,” I said. 

“Again,” he added.  From their stats, that wasn’t going to happen this season.  I picked up the daddy longlegs with a tissue. 

The Reporter delivers the best set-me-up straight lines ever.  Better than Dean Martin.  Better than Oliver Hardy.  Better than Dan Rowen.  I try not to be a smart aleck but I just can’t help it.

“Sure is humid today,” he’d said, not long after our marriage, watching windshield wipers swish the early morning precipitation back and forth.

I handled myself maturely.  “Giving rocket scientists a run for their money, huh?”  Remember it was before noon, not my most diplomatic hours.

My husband removed both hands from the steering wheel, cupped them in the shape of claws and raised them to his face.  Then he growled, baring his teeth.  He looked and sounded like our orange striped cat when Cheezy pulled Pumpkin from the chimney shaft.

“Give it up,” I snarled back.

“I don’t feel good.”  I recognized his last attempt at self-preservation.  First he’d change the subject, then he’d hiss like a cat backed against a wall, and lastly he’d shoot for sympathy.

“If I lived at home,” he whined, “my mom would fix me chicken soup.”

“So call your mom.”  I had laughed.

I try to be good.  I just can’t.

Yesterday I sent the retired live-in, now my personal shopper, for shampoo, conditioner, and berries.  When I got home from work, I spotted the giant size shampoo and conditioner on the kitchen table.  “Costco didn’t have any berries,” he noted.

“So did you ask when they would be coming in?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t that have made sense,” I questioned, again in my less-than-patient tone,  “to ask while you were physically there?”

He attempted to change the subject by reading aloud from the shampoo label.  “Restores brilliance,” he quoted.

I tried to be quiet, but couldn’t do it.  “Maybe you ought to try the shampoo,” I laughed.

I can’t help it.  He is my perfect straight man.

P.S.  If the shampoo thing works, I’m going to be stuffing lots of little bottles in Christmas stockings.

Related posts:

1. The shortened version
2. The perfect woman
3. Does any man listen?
4. Life’s subtle changes