It all started with that stupid truck. If it hadn’t been for the truck, I’d never have flooded the kitchen, or lost a riding lawnmower and three vehicles in the pond, and I certainly wouldn’t have sent a pine tree through the power wires and knocked out a substation on the Sunday when the last game of the World Series was playing.
But I digress.
It all started with the stupid truck, and my husband allowing me to help him with replacing the valve cover gaskets. I can’t explain the high I got from tackling something so…so…so…not “girly”.
Okay, I admit it. I was proud of myself. (Yeah, yeah, I know…pride goeth before a downfall and all that stuff.)
I confess – I was full of it. Pride that is. Tinker with the truck and all of a sudden I’m an ace mechanic. I’d pop the hood on my car while I filled up with gas, pull out a dipstick or two, and really act like I knew what I was doing.
Then one night I left home to run to the store. My car began making a gosh-awful racket and the steering wasn’t too smoky either. I turned around and headed back. As I pulled into the driveway, my husband and his best friend, J.D., came out to meet me.
“Something’s wrong with my car,” I said as I jumped out and popped the hood.
“Hmmm,” my husband replied.
“The steering’s all squirrelly, and it’s making a noise,” I explained as I checked dipsticks and wiggled bolts.
J.D. peeked over my shoulder. “What kind of noise?”
“I can’t describe it. It’s shaking all over and kind of going whomp, whomp, whomp,” I said as I checked the fan belt.
“Uh huh.” He turned to my husband. “Sounds serious to me.”
My husband leaned down and looked at the grille. “Honey, have you checked the headlights?” he asked, tapping the lenses.
“No way,” said J.D. “I think it’s the turn signals or the side markers.”
“What is wrong with you two boneheads?” I yelled. “Headlights and turn signals don’t make the kind of noise I heard! I’m not stupid!”
My husband grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me toward the rear of the car, pointing. “Well then, do you think that flat tire might have anything to do with it?”
I felt the heat rise in my face, and I clenched my teeth. I punched my husband, slammed the hood, and kicked J.D. for good measure while he was rolling around on the ground in hysterics.
But by then I’d caught the fever. I was bound and determined to learn how to do stuff. My husband was equally bound and determined that I wasn’t going to touch stuff. After a remodeled kitchen, a new riding lawnmower, and a power substation, he has locked me out of the tool shed.
We were at Lowe’s the other day, picking up some doors we had ordered. I moseyed over to the tool department while we were waiting.
“What are you doing?” my husband growled behind me.
I grinned sheepishly. “Just wondering if you needed a new set of socket wrenches.”
“No,” he said, pushing me toward the door. “And neither do you.”
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