Thursday, Jul. 18, 2002
The spousal unit is still not 100 per cent recovered from his back injury, so I have been pressed into service as his chauffeur.
Things get ugly fast when I drive and he co-pilots. I doubt he's even aware that his critiques get under my skin. I'm guessing he's also blissfully ignorant of the fact that the only reason I wasn't mopping his blood off the upholstery of the Marnmobile is that
a) there were no weapons grade objects at hand in my car;
b) we all know how I loathe housework in any form.
Yep, if bloodstains on car upholstery weren't such a bear to deal with, things might have gone another way.
So we made it into the village and I pulled into the driveway of the home where he finished renovating a bathroom last week. This should be a simple in-out situation. The woman is thrilled with his work. She knows our estimated time of arrival. She knows how much the bill is.
I sat out in the Marnmobile in the blazing summer sun because I assumed that I would be there for all of about five minutes. Five minutes ticked down, no sign of spousal unit. Fine. I assumed it couldn't be much longer so I continued to sit in the Marnmobile and sauté quietly. Twenty minutes. No spousal unit.
The woman's husband spotted me in the car and came out to invite me on to the patio. As I settled into the chair he said, "This shouldn't take much longer" which ranks right up there on the mendacity scale with the words "one size fits all".
FORTY FIVE FREAKING MINUTES LATER things were finally wrapped up. We had the cheque, the spousal unit has more work from this woman and the needle on the Marn Mood Gauge was redlining into the Extremely Cranky Do Not Aggravate In The Slightest zone.
When I am in this state I recommend protective bomb squad type clothing to anyone who might have to come near me.
Maybe he picked up on the white knuckle death grip I had on the steering wheel. Maybe it was the steely gaze coupled with the blood trickling from the corner of my mouth from biting my tongue for far longer than I should. Whatever the reason, the spousal unit did not say word one about my driving on the return trip home.
Actually he didn't say anything at all.
Was this finely honed survival instincts kicking in or was he simply mute with terror over how bad my driving really is?
Ah, sweet mysteries of life ...
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.
This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine. Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.
©2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.