Thursday, September 2, 2010

Forces of Evil

Last night, all the forces of evil collided.

It started with the truck.  Did I tell you the husband got a truck?  A month or two, or six ago.  I'm not really sure.  I'm trying to block its existence from my mind.

Don't get me wrong, it's a nice truck and all, but a new truck equals car payment.  Something neither the husband nor I have ever had.  A car payment means I can no longer spend four hundred dollars a month at Ann Taylor we can't afford our mortgage.

I mean, technically we can afford our mortgage, in that we still pay it every month, but the point is, car payments suck.

But he had to get a new truck when he left his job to start his own company, which, oh so conveniently coincided with the World Cup.  What luck that he suddenly works from home, where there just happens to be a TV, which just happens to show hours upon hours of men running up and down a field in the hopes that after eighty-nine point four minutes of playing someone will score a goal.  And everyone's all woo-hoo and the stadium is filled with the sound of cicadas on crack.  But at least the game is over and your team won.  Yes, there is four minutes of stoppage time, but it took eighty-nine minutes to score one goal, there is no way anyone is scoring a goal in four min-

What!

Seriously, how the hell did he do that?

Great, now the score is tied.  How long is overtime?

There is no overtime?  They end in a tie?  So basically what you're telling me is if these two teams hadn't played at all, the outcome would have been the exact same.  You're telling me if the players of these two teams spent the afternoon in their hotel rooms drinking beer and entertaining hookers it would have made absolutely no difference in their standing, because a tie's a tie, whether the score is zero zero or one one.

I'm calling shenanigans.  Can we watch a real sport now?  Like football.  No, not American football.  Just football.  With helmets and padding and big bulging men in spandex.

To summarize all that, the new truck is evil and is responsible for stupid sports.

It's also evil because I need a step ladder to get in it, my feet don't reach the floor and I have to manually adjust my seat.  The husband gets an electric adjuster that not only makes the seat go forward and back, but up and down, adjusts the lumbar support and performs magic tricks.  My seat has that metal bar underneath that you have to pull up on then shimmy your ass back and forth to move it forwards or back.  And you better make sure you hear it click in place or you'll be riding along and someone will slam on the brakes and you'll be flung to the back of the vehicle, which thankfully isn't that far because it's a truck and I don't care what people say about how big the cabin is, and how much room there is in the back.  It's a truck.  The backseat sucks.  I vowed to the husband that I will never sit in the backseat.  Ever.  We could have that truck for fifteen years and I will never step one foot back there.

So the truck was evil force number one.

Number two was our small, single-car driveway and the maniacal bushes that line it.  The husband is still learning how to is really good at parking the truck and gave me plenty of room to exit the evil truck.  And by plenty of room, I mean he pretty much parked on top of the bushes.

I open the door, free fall from the truck and miraculoulsy land on the small sliver of driveway. And there I shall stay for the rest of my life because I cannot move.  In one hand I hold my shoes - I've been wearing five inch heels all day and my knees are shot - while the other hand clings to the open door of the truck.  I can't close it, because then I will lose my balance and fall into the evil bushes.

I attempt to turn.  Enter evil force number three.  Something lands on my foot.  My bare foot.  I scream my head off, fling myself into the bushes and attempt to run, which is ridiculous becuase I'm crammed between a truck and bushes and there is no where for my feet to go.  So instead of running I just flail around like a spaz and hope the inertia of my movement will propel me out of peril.  Except doesn't inertia hold things together, like keeps the earth in orbit or something?  Or not.  I'm not a scientist.  I'm A VICTIM.

I vaguely remember the husband reaching for me, trying to steady me, trying to help.  It was pointless.  Sweet.  But pointless.

I finally free myself from the clutches of the truck and bushes.  Step on the grass - evil force number four - and run upstairs to our front door.

I am frozen in horror.  I hear cursing and muttering from the husband.  He comes to the bottom of the stairs and asks for my keys.

Me: Do you know what just happened?

The husband: I'm guessing a lizard jumped on your foot.

Me: Lizard.

The husband: Do you have your keys?  I dropped mine in the bushes and the flashlight is locked in the car.

Me, eyes wide, vacant: Lizard.

The husband: Can I have your keys?

Me drooling, crumbling to floor: Lizard.

The husband takes my keys from my purse, unlocks the truck, grabs the flashlight and journeys into the bushes to retrieve his keys.  Where he was eaten alive by lizards.

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