Uh-oh. Do you know what that sound is? It’s not the mockingbird who lives in our front tree (although that bird is crazy enough to copy it if it hears it often).
It’s the Honey Do Call that my husband makes–now that we know what his tell is. It means he has a project that requires my presence
assistance. It is disguised as a request for company:
“Di Di, will you sit in the garage with me?”
Oh, no. Not the garage.
But The Husband is cute, really cute. That cuteness somehow sucks me into the garage before my survival instincts can kick in and make me escape from the house. The moment I stepped into the garage I was a goner.
It’s too late for me. Save yourselves!
“Di Di. Will you come with me to the store?”
Run away! Run away!
Oh, I can handle the store, I thought to myself. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I knew I should have run away when I had the chance when we pulled into the parking lot of the auto parts store.
The Husband bought front shocks for our little old pickup truck. We bought it the year after we got married. It’s 19 years old. Our neighbor calls it the “little red wagon”–even though it isn’t red–because we use it well.
Shocks? I’m shocked. First, he doesn’t work on his own cars anymore. Second, the ride has been bumpy for years, why fix it now?
In the garage, “keep me company” becomes “please hand me the blah, blah, blah” (don’t expect me to name the tools) and leads to “adjust the jack like this” and then finally “help me push this shock into place.”
For someone who was going to watch idly, I was covered in car grime.
Fast forward a few weeks…
Run for your life!
This time he completely tricked me into going to the auto parts store. I don’t know how I missed the signs. I should have seen the red flags and fled the scene when I got the Honey Do call. Surely, one of the kids needed me right at that moment.
The rear shocks were much easier to get into place, but it was hot as Hades in the garage. Who decides to work on his car in the garage in the Texas summer? (That’s a rhetorical question, of course.)
We cleaned off the grime and went for a ride in the little 19-year-old pick up truck. There are no handles above the windows. I like to call this handle the “Oh, crap!” handle. (I like to keep this blog rated PG. I usually have a different name for it.)
Whatever you do, don’t get in that truck!
The truck recovered so well that we were thrown all over the small cab. Why didn’t they put “Oh, crap!” handles in this thing? Did they not know my husband was going to be driving it?
Then it dawned on me that riding in the truck is now the best abdominal core workout ever. Go around the block again, Honey!
If I’d known, I would have been in the garage a long time ago calling, “Honey, will you keep me company out here?”
And the hunter becomes the hunted.
What’s on your honey-do list? 🙂