Eh tu, one thinger?

Last week, I misplaced one of the handsets for our phone. It was the one from the bedroom, which I'm sure I grabbed quickly while making the bed/folding laundry/looking at naked pictures of Angelina Jolie, whatever. I grabbed and walked somewhere in the house and set it down. I could not find it any where.

I looked high and low. I looked all the usual places that the one thinger likes to hide things, but still no handset. This particular phone was set on quiet since it is for our bedroom so paging it was worthless.

Finally I gave up. I told the hubby it was time for a new phone group anyway, so why not investigate some of the finer models at our local Sam's Club bulk-till-you-puke extravaganza.

Friday, when I was chatting yet again while doing random tasks, I pulled open my panty drawer to find the perfect pair and low and behold, that fucking handset.

I have become a one thinger. I have no words for my shame...

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

The one thinger is losing his damn mind. Imagine my surprise when I opened the cabinet to pull out a glass for a nice refreshing drink of water.

We keep the Tylenol cold medicine on hand for those middle of the night headaches, snotty nose or earaches but that carton of orange juice is a new addition. This is a new level, even for my one thinger.

Almost

The one thinger strikes again. Seriously, his heart is in the right place, but why OH WHY, can't he just finish the job?

Curse of the one-thinger

So, my husband is a notorious one thinger. Now most men are one thingers, but it takes a devoted and caring wife/girlfriend to point out those hideous one-thing traits and save our men. Luckily I am such a woman and I like to point out my hubby's one thingedness every chance I get.

Last night, the one-thing curse almost killed me. (Insert ominouse music here. I like John Williams' work on the new Star Wars series, but hey, that's just me.)

First, a lesson on one thingers. A one thinger will complete a task ... except for one thing. For example: My husband will clean the kitchen, put the dishes in the dishwasher, wipe the floor and turn off the lights ... but he won't wipe down the kitchen table.

Or, he'll lovingly put away all our clean laundry ... and leave the laundry basket on the bed, which he will transfer to the floor at bedtime, and transfer back to the bed in the morning.

So last night, he tells me the door in our bathroom closet isn't closing properly, and he will fix it. I hear much banging, grumbling and possibly a few curse words. (Not from my good Baptist boy!)

Low and behold, he exists 10 minutes later and says it's broke. Good, I hate it and I'm looking for a reason to buy a new door -- or just spend his hard-earned money in general.

I forget about the door and go about the joys of motherhood, aka, spill, clean-up, spill, clean-up, pretend we're puppies, spill, clean-up, bathtime, bedtime, whendoIgettodie?

Bedtime rolls around, I stumble into my room to take out my contacts, pull open the closet door ... and it falls on my fucking head!

What the! ONE THINGER!

But, have no fear ladies, I think I have the cure for this dreaded disease. I too will become a one thinger, but with just one thing ... tampons, preferably recycled.

I bet he's cured by Christmas.