Today Mr. Barefoot is taking his boat and all of it's accessories to the auction house to help us get together the biggest possible down payment for a house (can you tell he REALLY wants a house?). One of said accessories is a fish finder. I don't understand the fun of taking such a thing out on the lake, but the Mr. seems to think it is an indispensable tool so I don't say too much. Except that he doesn't seem to catch any more fish with it than he did without it.
He came home from work and started digging through closets and boxes. I assumed he was getting all his stuff together, since he is going down to Zumbro Falls for a gig again tomorrow. I was really trying to ignore his mutterings, though they continued to increase in both volume and violence as the minutes ticked by.
"Have you seen my fish finder?" He asked me, like I spend my spare time playing with the dang thing.
"Yeah," I replied absently, "it's in the box with Mr. Barefoot's Stuff written on it." I was not really in the mood for either conversation or helping him find his lost items. A mysterious pain in the vicinity of my left kidney and a general feeling of nausea had me convinced I was dying of kidney failure, and I was kind of concentrating on that (and, not incidentally, trying to figure out how many mg of Tylenol is really safe to take at a time).
Well, Mr. Barefoot was convinced it wasn't. He was convinced he had seen it just recently in the apt somewhere. In fact he KNEW he had.
After a little while longer, he went upstairs to check our storage room. He was gone for quite a while, and came back perplexed and irritated because he couldn't find it.
I am not the kind of gal that can really take listening to very many repeats of the same "Where the heck is that stupid thing? No, not in there...dammit....Hmmmmm...." kind of thing without going quite loudly insane. So I got up and started helping him look.
This of course led to me getting cranky because in order to look for anything, I have to move his drum kit and the work table and shift several hundred piles of papers and dig through boxes.
Holy Cow I want a house with a little more space.
Mr. Barefoot went upstairs to look one more time as I tore the apt apart looking for his man-toy and exercised the foulest words I could find in my (rather extensive) vocabulary.
Then he came downstairs again and looked in a few closets. Mostly he stood in the middle of the apt and looked around with a perplexed look on his face.
He finally asked me to go upstairs (two flights, mind you) and look in the storage room. As I am getting ready to head up, he informs me that the only box he didn't really look in was the one labelled Mr. Barefoot's electrical stuff, camcorder, etc. I couldn't help but roll my eyes a bit and grumble as I headed out the door.
I climbed both flights of stairs, went through three locked doors, and moved approximately two dozen precariously stacked boxes to get to the back of the storage room (now remember I am dying from kidney failure during all this). I finally fish out the box with the appropriate label, open it, and what do you think I found?
Oh, yeah, the stupid thing was in there.
So the moral of the story is: Listen to your wife. And if you can't do that, read the LABEL ON THE BOX.
I'm just sayin'