Thursday, October 11, 2012

Last Night

Last night was one of those nights. 

You know, one of those nights where you go to pick your husband up from work at 5, and you don't feel like driving home because you are tired and have been suffering from PPE (Permanent Pink Eye, the scientific name for any bout of pink eye that lasts much longer than "5-7 days."), so you ask your husband to drive.  He obliges, and your little family scores a distance of 2 feet before he turns to you and says, "How long have you been driving on a flat tire?" 

"What?" you reply back, doubting his suggestion.  "I have not been driving on a flat tire.  I would have felt it."

But alas, he was right.  The rear tire on the passenger side is ridiculously flat.  Feeling perfectly lobotomized, you start to wonder how you did not notice something like that and how long other drivers have been staring at you like you are nutsy.  You wonder, how could I have not felt something like that?

Does it maybe have something to do with the fact that you and your husband have encountered a flat tire approximately TEN times since knowing each other 3 years ago?  It's practically routine around here.  You know, get up, get showered, eat cookie dough, change flat tire, etc.  Very typical.  It's actually how you and your husband met when he changed a flat tire for you, but the frequent reminder of that fateful event has ceased to be romantic ever since the funds used to pay for it will probably prevent your children from receiving higher education.

So your husband starts to change the tire while you sit inside his office with the baby.  Have you ever noticed how changing a tire attracts men from all over to come and watch?  Soon, your husband has several spectators watching him wrestle one stubborn lug nut until it finally comes off.  Then you have a spare on, and you are ready to go get a new tire.

One of the spectators suggests "Tire King" down the street, so off you go to get a new tire and resume your busy evening full of previously scheduled activities, when you can never find "Tire King."  You drive according to instructions, and you don't find it.  You enter it into the GPS on your phone, and you are led to an empty field.  Presumably where you will die.

You finally decide to just start going home and find a place on the way.  But there is this baby screaming in the back, who insists on being fed according to schedule although nothing else is going according to schedule.

So you stop at a gas station.  Your husband goes in to buy a water bottle to mix with the formula for the baby and comes back with an announcement.

"They have Boar's Head in there!" 

"WHAT!?!?!?  Where are we?  Gross!" is your initial reaction until you learn that Boar's Head is a sub sandwich place.  You must have grown up in the boonies to never eat at a fine establishment called Boar's Head.

Your husband convinces you to have dinner at the aforenamed place (you can only type it out so many times without writhing), even though you are convinced it will just be gross, but you go in to pick the sandwiches while he feeds the baby. 

You give your order to a toothless woman named Margie but give your money to another worker because Margie informs you that she isn't allowed to handle the money.  You wait a good 20 minutes for the sandwiches, all the while staking out all of the other goods (Ben & Jerry's!) offered at the gas station in case this is your new home.  Margie seems like a nice enough roommate.

You finally go to the car with the goods and attempt to eat the mess while also feeding your husband his sandwich whilst he is driving.  You wonder to yourself why you ever attempt this as you are pretty sure it is the messiest, most inefficient way of eating. 

You realize that your sandwich is really amazingly good, but your poor husband is eating a sandwich full of mustard and pickles because, being lobotomized, you forgot that he hates those things.  Poor husband.

You also realize that you didn't grab napkins, and you are using diapers to catch the mess on your laps.  (2 points for being clean diapers.)

You finally arrive at a tire place and sit in the waiting room with other people that you can't stop yourself from talking to, even though your husband thinks you are crazy, because by this time it is late evening, and the giddiness is setting in.  You laugh at everything they say and even more at everything you say.  Because let's face it--You are so funny at nighttime. 

You talk to a 13-year old girl who is trying to buy tickets to a Meet and Greet with Justin Bieber.  You debate with her about the merits of Katy Perry (obviously none).  You ask her about if she has any siblings, and she informs you that she has a half brother who is "like 27 . . . almost 30!"

You hastily remind her that 27 is almost 28, not 30.

You need to change your baby, and being lobotomized, you don't have your changing pad with you.  The worker at the tire place overhears you and brings new, clean t-shirts that a tree trimming company had dropped off earlier that day, and you change your baby on them.  Naturally.

The other partiers (fellow patrons of the tire place) get their cars fixed, and it's just your family left.  A smile creeps up on your face.

For you now have control of the remote and Dr. Quinn is on.

You finally get home after 9.  Getting out of the car, you hit your own face and give yourself a fat lip.  PPE and a fat lip to boot. 

You survived with hardly a picture to help the long winded blog post you are going to write about the night.

So you know, it was one of those nights.



2 comments:

  1. BAHAHAHAHAA THIS IS GOLD! I DIDN'T KNOW 1/2 THOSE THINGS HAPPENED. I love you. I pretty much worship this post. Your day wins.

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  2. the best post ever written. several gems:
    1. for now you have control of the remote and dr. quinn is on.
    2. because margie isn't allowed to handle the money. yikes.
    3. margie seems like a nice enough roommate.
    4. presumably where you will die.

    i hate/love this all at the same time. i changed a diaper in the car today and had to dig poop out of my nails.

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