Michael had asked the age old question, "Why are there pistachios in your underwear drawer?"
What the hell were you doing in my underwear drawer?
Let me first say that this post has nothing to do with David, so if you came here to read about him you can stop now. Unless you consider that really everything has to do with David in some way and in this case, it probably stems from the fact that, to put it mildly, David sometimes makes things just a tad more difficult. Things like shopping, wrapping presents, addressing Christmas cards, decorating the tree--pretty much everything associated with Christmas is more challenging with David around. Consequently, we sometimes cut a few corners.
Michael had seen some black Friday specials on Amazon.com and since the stock market is actually open for three and a half hours on the day after Thanksgiving because the world economy might collapse (even more) if it were simply to close for the entire day, I was at work. And since I was at work and the Amazon offers would not still be available by the time I got home, he went ahead and ordered his own Christmas presents.
When they started to arrive, Michael unceremoniously unpacked them one by one—the cordless drill, the DVD showcasing the Rolling Stones appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show, even the Swiss Army knife and put them in a pile in the living room.
Now, I must admit that I already have my Christmas present and have been using it, which is another story for another day, but it bothers me that Michael is not really going to receive anything that is a surprise. So when I was at Target, I had noticed that they had little sleeves of pistachios, perfect for a Christmas stocking. Michael loves pistachios and since I do not, we never have them in the house. Into the cart they went. And then into the laundry basket with the clean clothes that needed to be carried upstairs and while Michael was helping David get ready for bed and I was putting laundry away, I discovered them just as Michael came back into the room. It was too late to sneak them into the guest room closet with the other Christmas presents waiting for wrapping paper, so I threw them in my dresser drawer before he could see them.
Fast forward a few days, when Michael asked the infamous question, "Why are there pistachios in your underwear drawer?"
I hope that I phrased my answer more politely than the immediate response that popped into my head, but I am certain that I broke my Mother's cardinal rule that you never answer a question with another question. "Honey, whatsoever were you doing in my underwear drawer?"
To this day, I still do not know the answer to that question. He tried to convince me that he was putting laundry away, but in the almost 15 years that we have been married, I do not think that he has ever put MY clean laundry away.
He certainly was not in there looking for something, because—remember the 15 years of wedded bliss mentioned previously—all of the things in that drawer that may have been lacey, or racy, or in any way interesting to Michael have been replaced by Jockey cotton hipsters, in varying shades of neutral pastels.
Whatever the reason, Michael had discovered the pistachios and the magic of Christmas is now gone.
I need a better hiding place.
And some new underwear.