Workin’ for the weekend
Jason and I decided to fritter away our Friday evening by running errands. I know - we’re WILD! Our plan was to get some Halloween decorations, eat dinner, and then finish the rest of our shopping afterwards. That was the plan.
What happened was, after Jason drove his car home from work, picked me up and drove all the way to Michael’s without incident, the car died. Totally, literally, figuratively. Dead. D-E-D, dead.
A very kind woman tried jumping the car, but nothing. This was kind of a problem because:
1) I had decided to be blissful and carefree and scorn the fall weather by wearing short sleeves and flip flops and now I was freezing my buns off starting intently at the ungrateful car parts under the hood, and
2) Both Jason and I were now off-schedule, because the next item on the agenda was supposed to be: FOOD, and food is very important to us, because NO FOOD = EXTREME CRABBINESS = SOMEONE ENDS UP DEAD FROM RANDOM THROAT PUNCHING.
After some tense moments of listening to hundreds of people get into their cars in the parking lot and hearing the roar of their engines turning over on the first try, I nattered on like Little Miss Optimistic: (”Maybe it’s just the battery, not the alternator, like that lady who helped us said. What does she know anyway? Just because her whole family consists of mechanics doesn’t mean she’s right.”) while Jason stared stoically at his car and muttered, “This is going to cost money. Money I don’t HAVE at this precise moment.”
After a lovely cab ride home, we hopped into my car to finish the rest of the evening without incident. On Saturday, we traipsed back to the car (Diagnosis: STILL DEAD, but DEAD AND MOCKING YOU BOTH WITH MY STEADFAST REFUSAL TO START), called for a tow and had it taken to the nearest dealer. Where after a few hours we learned that it was indeed just the battery.
So, now in a fabulous mood, Jason and I started cleaning up our garage. Because we are both freaks like that. I’m telling you, our garage could be in a magazine, that’s how organized it is. It’s pretty clean too, except for the blood spots on the floor. From where Jason cracked open his head on the garage door track. And almost fell on top of me when he toppled off the bench he was standing on.
The thing to remember with Jason is that you cannot talk to him or touch him when he is injured. He needs to deal with it on his own, which involves hissing swear words loudly, followed by total silence, the length of which stretches indeterminably to the point where you start to think maybe bad things have occurred, such as 1) brain damage and/or 2) death.
After awhile he asked me, “Can you take a look at it? Is it bleeding?”
Me: “No.”
[CUE RIVER OF BLOOD]
Me: “Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, it is.”
And then I had to sit down for awhile without telling Jason why, because the fact of the matter is, despite my steadfast refusal to believe so, I apparently get a little nauseous seeing blood run down someone’s scalp in thick, goopy rivulets. Who knew?
