Men, Tools, and Saturday Catastrophes
2005-05-21, 12:49 p.m.

Hubby knows how to make me jump.

�Sally, I have a drill, you�d better get in here!�

Yep, that�ll do it.

I nixed a wireless system, because, knowing us, instead of having a handy-dandy internet connection, we will connect to the airport�s control tower and direct a number of planes to either self-destruct or land in the middle of Dollyw00d, when all we wanted to do was download something from iTunes. Soooo, Hubby is installing yet another length of bright blue DSL connection wire so that he can dilly-dally with his laptop on the porch, in the kitchen, or in the living room, according to his Divine Will. He chose a central target and went underneath the house with big manly drill bits, even bigger spiders, and made the first hole in the middle of the freaking kitchen floor.

He tried unsuccessfully (surprise!) to convince me that the wire was totally inconspicuous against the white linoleum. He then informed me that he *could* install a wall outlet, but that meant more work than simply punching holes in the kitchen floor.
He just left to buy the wall outlet and to get out of range of my telekinetic wrath.
He promises that he can fill in the hole with white caulk and it won�t be noticeable. Why do I envision it will look like the M*chelin tire guy took a dump there? Big white pile of goo next to the kitchen table. Great.

Happy place, happy place, Sally go to your happy place. Breathe.

With all the cables and wires and pipes he�s put underneath the house, it looks like something out of �Tron� down there. Gawd I loved that movie when I was a kid. But I digress�

Back to the Thursday night adventure.
Crappy dialogue!
Baaad@ss Yoda!
7 billion dollar f/x budget!
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away� (insert tears of joy)
Yes, it was �Star Wars Episode III: Back To The Basics�. And it was gooooood. I can now sorta kinda quit being 9 years old again and return to our regularly scheduled 37-year-old life.

Do I have to?

Yesterday evening, in the parking lot of a big home improvement store, Hubby�s truck died. It died a sudden and noisy death. It died the sudden and noisy death in the parking spot next to our neighbors, whom Hubby had just met, and who were loading a refrigerator into their own pickup. Handy, yet embarrassing. They gave us a ride home, and this morning he and I met the tow truck and fell in to the funeral procession back to the repair shop. With a new starter, they can rebuild it, make it bigger, stronger, faster�well, not really, but for just under 6 million dollars (labor included) it will run again. They also found a host of other problems that will have to be dealt with later, after we win the lottery.

In the midst of this, we had left our children home (yes, they�re old enough) with the delicate task of laying around in jammies, watching cartoons, and eating HoHos for 45 minutes. It�s a tough job, but they were up to it. While we were gone, Daughter called my cell and said she smelled gas. She opened the windows, shuttled her little brother outside, and Mrs. Guru hurried over to pick them up. Hubby and I checked everything out carefully, inside and out�no gas, no leaks, no smell except for Daughter�s shoes in her closet, and man, those were baaaaaaad. False alarm, but we�re proud of Daughter for handling it well. Better to overreact than to pooh-pooh something and then explode.

I�m off to a Pamper-Me-I�m-A-Chef party, after which we will pawn our children off on the Gurus yet again, this time for overnight, and go celebrate our anniversary with the $2.45 left in our account after paying for the truck repairs. A large order of fries can be romantic, right?

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