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“Do you know where the 2011 tax returns are?” my husband asked from the other end of the phone.

As always, when I work a day during the week, and he’s at home with children and responsibilities, something goes awry.

“What?!”  It’s really not the question you’re expecting at 10:00 am in October of 2012.

“The tax returns,” he pressed.  “Any idea where they are?”

“In the office, last I saw them.”  God knows, in our house, they could be anywhere.  Don’t rule out Paige’s underwear drawer.

“Thanks,” he said, and hung up.

By the time I got home, a few hours later, the tax returns had still not been located.  Turns out, I had put them in a file in the file cabinet, and for some God unknown reason, the file cabinet was purged of any information relating to us, by my lovely step-father.  So the tax returns are…who knows.

I dig through a rubbermaid tote containing many of the missing file folders (don’t ask).  And can find it no where.  But that certainly doesn’t mean it’s not IN there.

There’s an argument at the dinner table.

“BECAUSE NOTHING EVER GETS PUT AWAY!” I vaguely remember shouting, like a rabid animal.

“Wait, why should I have to put everything away?” dear hubby asked.

“Um, don’t you LOVE to tell me it’s YOUR money?”

And granted, he’s usually totally joking when he says it (though he does make probably 90% of the income), but it’s helping me win my argument, so shut up.

“But wait,” he counteracts, “If it’s MY money, why did WE go on a Disney vacation with it?”

We’re also going to Disney THIS year, just the two of us, to celebrate our upcoming ten years of madness.

“Fine,” I huffed.  “No vacation then, this year.  We just won’t go.”

No matter what my husband says, don’t believe him for a second unless he tells you he would happily hole up at the Magic Kingdom for the rest of eternity, doing perpetual loops on Splash Mountain, listening and singing to Zippity-Do-Dah as he goes.  He wants to go to Disney probably MORE than the children.  And most definitely because the children are not joining us this time, considering it’s our “honeymoon” trip.

“Oh, no,” he says quickly.  “We’ll go.  I’m just sayin’, if it’s MY money, why did WE all go on vacation?”

“And, if you remember correctly, who went through MOST of the money on that trip?”

“The kids,” he replied quickly.

“That’s right,” I nod.

“Paige!!” Paul yells from the dinner table.  The kids were smart, finished their dinner, and left our insanity about 5 minutes ago.  They were now enraptured with whatever cartoon that was on.  No answer at ALL from the peanut factory. “PAIGE!!”  Paul yelled again.

“Yes?” she says, running into the dining room.

Paul looked at her, in all seriousness, and says, “Why didn’t you put the tax returns away?”

She was stunned into speechlessness.  A first.  Never mind that she has no idea what a tax return is.  She stares at him, blankly.  I imagine the internal workings were something like this: “Is he high?  What the hell is a tax return?  He’s not seriously expecting an answer to this, is he?  He interrupted my show for THIS nonsense?”

I am now hysterical, because the look on her face is priceless.

Without giving him the satisfaction of an answer, or even saying anything, she turns on her heels and goes back into the other room.  I am now roaring.  Paul is as well.

“See, wasn’t that worth it?” he says.

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