Kenny and I have a “marital chore” arrangement that basically delegates anything inside the house to me, and anything outside the house to him. Friends and family know, of course, that this excludes cooking, since Hubs hates untoasted Pop-Tarts (in every flavor. I know…baffles me too), which is the extent of my culinary expertise. He cooks, I clean, and we agree on that particular aberration in our Big Plan. Otherwise, he naps happily on the couch while I vacuum around him, and watches TV while I fold the clothes or unload the dishwasher, while I, in turn, roll over to tan the other side in the summer while he’s mowing and weed-whacking, both of us without guilt or feeling the need to get up and help.
Every now and then, there’s a tiny overlap when one of us (okay, usually me) needs to address a situation normally reserved for the other one, and our system runs into a small glitch. Kenny does not always handle these well, and over the years I’ve had to develop a rather impressive repertoire of shimmy dances to coax him back to his usual happy self. (I should note here than when you’re young, shimmy dances are kind of sexy and virtually 99% effective as an “I’m sorry,” and naked shimmy dances can take out the other 1% of problems in 2 seconds flat. Over 50, they tend to be more goofy than sexy, with body parts flying in opposite directions, but can at least elicit loud guffaws, at which point, assuming you’re not overly sensitive, you’re one step away from making up.)
So I’m driving out to an evening event, all dressed up in Spanx and stilettos, and I hear this weird thumping underneath my car, which is also getting hard to steer. Thump. Thump. Thump. WTH?? I’m not a mechanic, but I’m reasonably sure cars should not thump, so I turned the car around and headed back home for Kenny to fix it. In my defense, it was dark, the road was slushy, I was wearing fabulous heels, and it was a car thing (think outside the house), which made it a hubby-do.
As I thumped slowly back into the driveway, Kenny came running out, waving his arms, yelling, “You have a FLAT TIRE! WHY ARE YOU STILL DRIVING?!?” “Cars are your job,” I replied, calmly, “So here’s the car.” Good Lord, he was raving like I was a 3-year-old who put the family cat in the dryer. (Must men always be so theatrical??) It was a tire, not the transmission, and I drove slowly. Now he’s off to Les Schwab for something called a “rim,” and I have to come up with a whole new shimmy dance. This one may have to be naked.