Thursday, June 25, 2015

Ode To The Guy-I-Let-Live-With-Me

I could make this into some sort of song, but, really, no one wants to hear me sing anything.  And by anything, I am required to lip-sync in church.  Ya catch my drift?  So we won't got there, just in case it gets catchy and then I'd be humming.  That's no good either.

No, this has to do with the fact that even after 24 (holy crap) years of marriage I still don't have it all in a bucket figured out what all The Hubs does for our family on a daily basis.  This was glaringly apparent this morning when I took the garbage-laden truck to the dump.

Little background here (because we all need the background).  Two weekends ago when we went to get a water tank (because it's the apocalypse right now in Washington because we haven't seen rain in two weeks, and don't see it in the foreseeable future).  That in and of itself is a pretty funny story if you have a minute.  Well, the truck overheated.  Big time.  Turns out it was the water pump.

Took it to the first mechanic.  He couldn't get some bolt undone (he doesn't usually work on diesels, but he's cheap - damn cheap).  Got quotes from some other mechanics and that was all over the place from $300-$900.  This was all the Hubs making these phone calls on a Tuesday morning on his day off.  (I would have called one place and just gone there, which is reason #23 why he's in charge of anything with a motor.  That, and the fact that if I get involved with anything with a motor, he has to take the teenager bra shopping.  Anywhoo...)

Turns out we have the one in a million Ford F250 with a dual alternator.  Figures we'd win that lottery.  And apparently those are in the way of the water pump that is all broke and leaking.  The price is potentially going up - a lot.  "You don't want us charging you by the hour," the shop dude says. The Hubs works it out, gives the okay to empty the bank account and hangs up.

Short story long, we got the truck back that day and went about our clean-out business.  We filled it with crap from the house, crap from the barn, crap from the tractor shed, crap from everywhere.  And this is not even the tip of the iceberg crap, but it felt good to get that teeny tiny bit out.

All the while we are loading the truck, it's running.  Pretty soon The Hubs is under the nose of the truck.  Where water is dripping.

Seriously?  Apparently it's not as fixed as shop-guy thinks it is.  And now it's loaded down with a dozen garbage bags, an old tire, some even older cat pee smelling carpet and a bucket of bent nails (I told you we were cleaning things out).  Did I mention that its 80 degrees out and us Washingtonians aren't used to this?

So there's the background (crud, that was long).  So, on Father's Day, I volunteered to, on Monday, take the truck to the dump, and then the shop.  The last thing IN THE WORLD that was going to happen was going to the dump on Father's Day.  No way.  Even I don't stoop that low (although things are a wee bit unconventional around Mother's Day).  I said, "Oh, the teenager can help. No Problem."

Problem.

Teenager is a wee bit cranky at 10:30 in the morning.    Wee bit.

Problem 2.

Are we sure this overheating truck is going to make it the three miles to the dump?  (You thought that was going to read 45 miles, didnt'cha?  Nope, seriously, we are blessed with the county waste management facility haul away place a whopping three miles from our driveway).

Problem 3.

Is this stuff tied down?

And circle around to the Teenager problem and just keep going around and around and around.

My stomach hurts.  But I have to get this done.  In 24 years of marriage, I've never gone to the dump by myself.  With an overloaded truck.  That is overheating.  With potential torpedoes in the back.

The Guy I Let Live With Me would not have even blinked twice.  His stomach wouldn't be in knots, ready to throw up.  He would have done it without the surly teenager - which might have been a good idea except I couldn't toss the carpet out by myself.  Then he would have come home and started ripping into the lawn mower belt drive thingy that keeps slipping off when we mow.

Bottom line:  We made it.  No one threw up.  The teenager didn't have to change her sulky attitude.  The truck didn't overheat (although the smell was a little burnt when we stopped).  The trash got emptied.

The cat-piss smell carpet is out of my barn.

Occasionally I will wonder what would happen to me on this farm if something were to happen to The Hubs.  My ego says it will be fine and I'll traipse through.

Reality tells me I still sorta need the guy.

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