Dramatic Recreation Theater Presents: The Dimwit Husband

I know what street I live on.

Because… Well, I live here.

I have no clue what the street over is, or the street behind the house is.

Because I don’t live on those streets, and have no need to hold that information inside my noggin.

(It’s crowded in there. Gotta keep track of important stuff, like what issue of Uncanny X-Men Dazzler first appeared in. (#130)).

Thing is, I may notice things, but not register them.

And by “register,” I mean, “care.”

But not in an apathetic, emo-teenager, “I don’t care” kinda way, more… I notice, but it doesn’t really effect or bother me, so it’s not on my radar kinda way.

Did I notice a new plant on the table?

Probably.

Did it make me pause, and wonder, “Why is there a plant here?”

Nope.

Am I glad the plants make my wife happy?

Yup!

And, I don’t mind having them around, either.

From what I’ve read, those CO2 absorbing little buggers make the air in our house cleaner, if only marginally.

(Microscopically.)

(And they don’t use electricity, like typical air purifiers.)

Anyway, maybe my wife is secretly Canadian.

Those maple-syrup drinking hockey-watchers love to apologize.

(And, from personal experience, silently terminate friendships without a word. But that’s a story for another time. Just popped into my head as I was typing; “Hey, I used to be what I thought was ‘good friends’ with a Canadian, once. Then they sort of… just stopped interacting with me. Huh. Weird.”)