She Loves Him, She Loves Him--NOT!

I love my husband. Truly I do. Except on Thursdays. 

It’s really only one Thursday. The word love was not part of my vocabulary on that day in January 2012. In fact, it never entered my mind. REDRUM however, did.

My husband and I met friends for dinner on Wednesday night to celebrate the completed remodel of our Jack-in-the Box restaurant. We pulled into the parking lot of the Cedar Ridge Restaurant and the snow had turned to a drizzle. I pushed the button (gently) on my umbrella and he locked the car. Rarely does my husband drive my car—a Honda Pilot at the time—and when he does, touch screens don’t register. He assumes a full-out assault is necessary on all buttons, whether touch or press, or they don’t work. I’ve told him hundreds of times a gentle touch is all you need. (It’s a male thing, you know). 

Dinner was divine, company superb, and stories a little wilder than the last retelling and we left the restaurant arm in arm under my umbrella (brings to mind Bus Stop lyrics. Herman’s Hermits ’66) The rain was just a sprinkle and I shook the drops off my umbrella and we drove home, flipped the switch on the fireplace to take the chill from the house before settling in for a good night’s rest—the end to a perfectly fine Wednesday.

I rose around 4:15am for my day job, peeked through the blinds and smiled at the new blanket of snow. I would need my snow boots. Snow continued to fall until mid-morning when the sun poked through spotty clouds and started melting six inches of pristine, white snow into a slushy, mucky mess. By lunchtime, it was cascading off the roofs in a waterfall of icy water, but the roads were clear. 

As I drove home for lunch, I came to the stop sign by the high school and braked. An odd noise caused me to look up. Bad mistake. The entire six inches of sloppy, slushy, soupy mess on the roof of my car slid to the front, through the OPEN moon roof, over my head and in my lap! Cars swerved around me, obviously avoiding the screaming drowned-rat lunatic. After containing my horror (and newfound disgust with moon roofs), I drove the rest of the way home sputtering several choice words at a wonderful husband who, at that moment, made me want to spend the rest of my life in prison…if I could just get my hands on him. 

You see, when you lock a Honda Pilot, if you hold the button down too long, the moon roof opens a smidge to release the hot air. I assume it’s a summer thing. Not in the flippin’ middle of a snowstorm!

My beloved still owns all the parts God intended a man to have—and they are all still attached. However, this could be a temporary situation…

Check back next week to find out why Tuesdays aren’t looking too good for him either.

Do you have a crazy day you’d like to tell me about? I’m up to sharing a jail cell…

Until then,

Happy Reading, Happy Writing!



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