Believe it or not, I’m typically a pretty easygoing person. But one thing I can’t stand is when someone voluntarily provides you with a time frame, and then totally drops the ball. For example, don’t tell me you’ll be home by 7, and then come rollin’ in around 8:30. You’ll see me go real ape-shit crazy, real fast.
This (not showing up when you say you will) happens to be one of JD’s strengths. He’s really, really good at giving me an ETA and then blowing that shit straight out of the water with a 2 hour delay. Don’t get me wrong, he typically has a reason, it’s just the reasons tend to start with, “I forgot that after practice I normally take a 45 minute poop and a 23 minute shower.”
So tonight, when he assured the Chase Man and me that he’d be home from wrestling club at 8:30, I wasn’t entirely optimistic. The mental math I was throwing together was something along the lines of Well, if JD finishes at 8 o’ clock, and then takes 8 minutes to blow his nose and check himself out in the mirror, then another 4 minutes digging in both ears to see what treasures he’ll find, and then a 17 minute poop, hmm…Let’s see…Carry the 3, add 6 onto that… I came up with about a 9 pm arrival time, and a train that makes it to New Mexico at 5 because I was never good with word problems.
While he was gone, I cleaned the house some, put the Si-Si Bear down to bed, and yelled at the dog (I took the kids for a walk earlier today, leaving the dog alone in the house, and when I came back Mac had taken my bra on a fieldtrip through the house, but hadn’t actually eaten it. I was impressed, until I realized that there was dog fur All. Over. My. Couch. He’d intentionally set up a false crime scene with a misplaced but perfectly intact bra, in a sick attempt to divert my attention from the true crime of sleeping on my couch).
At 8:30, no JD. Chase got in the shower, and I secretly shoveled stove-top-toasted-marshmallows into my mouth. At 9 pm, JD came strolling in. Shirtless and disheveled. Most sensible women would have automatically assumed their husbands were sleeping with dirty whores (like Miley Cyrus circa last night’s VMA performance), but I knew better.
“Did you get my text?” JD asked. “No,” I replied nonchalantly. “I was busy getting the kids ready for bed and doing other important domestic duties.” I wiped the sticky marshmallow goop from the corner of my mouth.
“Oh, well I texted you like a half an hour ago. My freaking car…” was all he said.
I came to the conclusion that his shitbox of a vehicle must have broken down, and that he, upon not getting in touch with me, was forced to get a ride from someone.
“The key wouldn’t go in the ignition again,” he sighed. We’ve had this problem before; it can take a few minutes to get the key in sometimes. But this time was different, and as JD continued with his story, an exhausted blank stare morphed into an outraged, maddened glow. A moment passed and when he started to speak again, he came out guns blazing.
“I just kept trying to jam the key in, y’know? But it wouldn’t go in. It just wouldn’t. So I punched the ignition. And when that didn’t work, I started kicking it. Jaim, I was in the driver’s seat, throwin’ my leg over to the side and just kicking the shit out of the ignition.”
I was at once speechless and enthralled. The morning yoga’s really paying off for him.
“I tried the key again after all the punching and kicking, but it didn’t work. So I kept hitting the steering column with my palm. But, nothing. NOTHING. So I ran to the trunk, and you know what I found? Guess. GUESS! A SCREWDRIVER, JAIMIE. Then, I walked back to the steering wheel. I knew what had to be done, so I did it. I ripped the whole ignition cover off, and then I started jamming that fucking screwdriver right in there. RIGHT IN THERE!“
By this point, JD was panting so hard I thought he might pass out with these bizarre bruises all over his hands and legs. I decided that even if I couldn’t bring him back to consciousness, I wouldn’t call 911 because it would look pretty suspicious.
“Then, I took the screwdriver out, and put the key back in, and the car started,” he finished.
“Wow! Why are you shirtless, though?” I questioned.
“I just beat the shit out of my car for thirty minutes. I got sweaty.”
“Oh,” I replied.
And just when I thought the conversation was over, JD said one last thing: “From now on, the key stays in the ignition. I took it off my keyring. I don’t give a shit. It stays in. Don’t ever take it out.”