Posts Tagged ‘honeymoon over’

Helpful Husbands are a Curse

April 11, 2010

As I sit here typing this, one of the Pen Pals is driving off in my husband’s late-model pick-up. My Insignificant Other loans it to him a couple of times a week.

My car is over twenty years old, has no top, and needs a new engine. I don’t bother lifting the hood to put oil in it anymore; I just pour it directly on the driveway. I’m fine with it leaking oil, because it means I’ve got some. I try to be considerate of where I park.

Insignificant Other knocked the side view mirror off of it about six years ago. The man, who everyone just loves (obvious recipients of Mexican food), can’t figure out his own email, but promised to repair the computer of his young, hot-body boss.  The parts of three computers have been spread across my dining room table for at least eight weeks.

More recently, IO had a co-worker bring his car over and promised to fix it free of charge (he has a complete aversion to making money). He drove it up under our single-car canopy, took it apart, and then couldn’t fix it. The same man who has let our kitchen sink drip in a steady stream for nine months. I was so surprised.

Did I mention my car has no top? It’s a very small suv, so small that I’m not even going to capitalize its abbreviation. It hasn’t had a top on it for seven years, and I drive it year-round, in all weather. A sweet old man down the street gave me an old Buick one winter because he felt sorry for me. The dear meant well, but something new went wrong with his car literally every day. At least mine is dependable, as long as I don’t try to leave town. I know just how it feels to be a Katrina refugee. There’s a catastrophe in my life, but I can’t leave.

As I was saying, the suv has no top. So when it rains, as it tends to do a lot in the spring, I like to park it under the single-car canopy that’s now occupied by a rusty, boat-size vehicle that won’t move. And the hood is up. One of the windows is broken, and a white kitchen trash bag that is supposed to be taped over it flaps in the breeze like a sail in a hurricane. And a storm is coming.

I told IO that if he didn’t move the boat-car before the storm hit that I would have it towed. He knew I had the money, because I just got paid. And he knows I’m colorful that way. So he and the Pen Pal pushed it down to the end of the driveway, where the bag can wave at passing cars to make sure everyone knows fer shure that a bunch of Poor White Trash lives here. In case the barbecue grill and kitchen chairs on the front porch didn’t make the statement.

My point, really, was that IO can do everything for everyone but me. He’s a Big Man who shares his toys with his buds, but his wife doesn’t need to be bought or impressed. I’m already a sure thing.

I am dead last on his list of priorities, and that’s a strong indication that the honeymoon is over.