Rotten Apples and the Complexity of Marriage
Of course, I’d need pictures for this site. This would mean several arduous nights at the restaurant blending in, drinking, eating and taking pics. One such evening, I asked the hot wife to come along. We drove to the usual street for parking. I pulled up to a spot and prepared to engage my master parallel parking move. As I whipped the car back, I underestimated curb location and was met with horrible grinding followed by slow and steady hissing.
Crap.
I knew exactly what happened, but hoped somehow the noises were a homeless man expiring under the car and not the flat I tire I feared. No such luck. I stood there, dressed like a rock star and facing the dirty task of changing an SUV tire. Hot wife chucked her purse to the ground and a chapstick rolled out and stopped at my toes. “I just had that tire replaced” She yelped. Salt in the wound, I thought. Not only had I failed miserably as a master parallel parker, I was also being pulled into the complex and futile world of spousal arguing. I took a deep breath and decided not to engage. Hot wife had had a bad day and I knew her rage wasn’t completely directed at me, so I broke off to find the jack. Upon opening the rear gate, I was met with piles of girly cheerleading junk that can only be found in a women’s car: nine pairs of shoes, 10 to 12 Lucky Magazines, two umbrellas and three complete changes of clothes. I let out a sigh of mental and physical fatigue. Not only do we have a flat to fix, we now have a wardrobe to organize. On the street. At 6:38pm.
We finally get enough of her closet into the back seat that I can get out the jack and spare tire–a full size spare, nonetheless. We spared no expense on our Subaru Forrester. Okay, jack in place, crank in hand and… the curb. The curb was in the way. I had actually performed a textbook parallel maneuver, I just misjudged the curb. I small wave of satisfaction spilled over me. I stood up and looked at Hot Wife. “The parking job is actually quite good.” I said with a grin. She shot a blank stare with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, “I want a divorce”. I slumped over with another tired sigh. “I have to move the car forward to that driveway. The jack won’t fit here.” I said, in defeat. I slowly lurched the crippled car forward until I had enough room to work and let out another sigh in the driver’s seat, before I exited for the task at hand.
It was warm, I was tired and dressed inappropriately. The lug nuts were near impossible to move and I was now sweating like the disgruntled Italian that I am. As I struggled not to get tire-black all over my rock star clothes, another SUV drove up. They spied the spot we had just pulled forward from and I thought out loud, “Oh you fuckin better not…” They did. They squeezed into our spot. OUR SPOT. Hot wife stood glaring at them, arms folded, foot tapping. I watched in disbelief as they pulled up and tapped the bumper OF A CAR ON A JACK. I immediately thru my arms up in the air at them in a classic “What the fuck?” pose. The couple exited the vehicle, Chicky on cell and Dude putting on a suit coat. Chicky didn’t even acknowledge our existence. Dude walked around to me and the jack, looked down at the empty wheel well and then up at me. He grinned and let out a small chuckle before walking down the street, arm around Chicky. I was furious, seeing red. Sure, we left the parking space and technically, its available. But be a man, assess the situation. Make an educated guess as to what’s transpiring. Maybe offer your condolences… Man to man. What a fucko.
I get the new tire on and am unsuccessful at keeping the grease and rubber off me in the process. Hot Wife is still watching Dude and Chicky walk away. She reaches her boiling point and in a blind rage, bolts to the back of our car. She pulls out two apples–two very rotten apples. Without a sound, she holds them up and with a mischievous grin, looks at me and then to Dude and Chicky’s SUV. Hot chick then does something that reminds why I continue to be hopelessly infatuated with her. She smooshes the apples allover the windshield and leaves the mangled remains in the wiper well. I don’t know what made me smile more–the fact that she had the presence of mind to do such a deed, or that she had such a thing as rotten apples in her car in the first place. Either way, I was in love all over again.
The flat got fixed, pictures were taken and a column written. A stellar night all around.