Just as I was repeating this mantra to myself -- "I will NOT complain about being busy. I will NOT complain about being busy. I will NOT complain . . . " -- my husband asked, "Do you hear that awful noise the car is making?
No, I didn't hear that noise. Two days later, my husband said, "The noise is getting worse. I think it's a wheel bearing problem; you should take it in to the shop." I love my guy. I humor him. So early the next morning, my Trusty Mechanic welcomed me in. He pushed me for specifics: What kind of noise is it? (I don't know; I couldn't hear it myself.) Where is the noise coming from? (As far as I can tell, it's coming from my husband).
Trusty M. took the car out for a spin and came back with good news and bad news. The good news is that my husband is right about the car. And the bad news is that my husband is right about the car. So Saturday I'll get to spend a few more hours with the Trusty M. while he replaces a pitted wheel bearing. I will NOT complain about being busy. No, my life is rich and full.
I was reminding myself that life (in particular, mine) is rich and full as I returned up and pulled up to my garage . . . but no amount of button pushing would open the doors. Those doors -- they've been cantankerous for several years, and my son-in-law-to-be has urged me to let him replace them. By good fortune he stopped by that very evening, and I moaned and whined to him. And, sweet guy that he is, the very next evening he'd replaced them. This took really almost none of my time, although the doors that my car will drive through cost three times as much as the wheel bearings it drives on.
Work emergencies. Back-to-school nights. My life is rich and full. And just when I was thinking, "Tonight while my husband is working late, I'll get to finish that goshdarned report I've been waiting on!", instead I had kid meltdowns. And dog disobedience. And then, when I went to push the "start" button on the dishwasher . . . nothing. I pushed it again, and got nothing again, only more emphatically. Drat. Another repair. More time, more money.
But what's keeping me busy -- er, I mean, full . . . to overflowing -- is mostly things. Piles of paper. Machines. Stuff, but not the important stuff. It's okay to wash dishes by hand with my sons, to have a car (rather than a person) get sick. It's okay.
But, still, I know I'd feel better if I just finished that goshdarned report.
No, I didn't hear that noise. Two days later, my husband said, "The noise is getting worse. I think it's a wheel bearing problem; you should take it in to the shop." I love my guy. I humor him. So early the next morning, my Trusty Mechanic welcomed me in. He pushed me for specifics: What kind of noise is it? (I don't know; I couldn't hear it myself.) Where is the noise coming from? (As far as I can tell, it's coming from my husband).
Trusty M. took the car out for a spin and came back with good news and bad news. The good news is that my husband is right about the car. And the bad news is that my husband is right about the car. So Saturday I'll get to spend a few more hours with the Trusty M. while he replaces a pitted wheel bearing. I will NOT complain about being busy. No, my life is rich and full.
I was reminding myself that life (in particular, mine) is rich and full as I returned up and pulled up to my garage . . . but no amount of button pushing would open the doors. Those doors -- they've been cantankerous for several years, and my son-in-law-to-be has urged me to let him replace them. By good fortune he stopped by that very evening, and I moaned and whined to him. And, sweet guy that he is, the very next evening he'd replaced them. This took really almost none of my time, although the doors that my car will drive through cost three times as much as the wheel bearings it drives on.
Work emergencies. Back-to-school nights. My life is rich and full. And just when I was thinking, "Tonight while my husband is working late, I'll get to finish that goshdarned report I've been waiting on!", instead I had kid meltdowns. And dog disobedience. And then, when I went to push the "start" button on the dishwasher . . . nothing. I pushed it again, and got nothing again, only more emphatically. Drat. Another repair. More time, more money.
But what's keeping me busy -- er, I mean, full . . . to overflowing -- is mostly things. Piles of paper. Machines. Stuff, but not the important stuff. It's okay to wash dishes by hand with my sons, to have a car (rather than a person) get sick. It's okay.
But, still, I know I'd feel better if I just finished that goshdarned report.
A favorite saying between my husband and me is "If it's not one thing it's another; if it's not this then it's that." And it does seem like more than one thing goes wrong at a time. My condolences! Hey, we've been doing dishes by hand since we moved to Iowa where the kitchen is only slightly better equipped than it was when built in 1922!
ReplyDeleteIf it's not one thing, then it's another. Yes. A friend told me that since things break down in threes, the bad streak must soon be over! Yay? (Thanks for the alert on the cross posting, by the way. I hope my stupid mistakes don't come in threes, too!) --MM
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