My wife says I got what was coming to me. I disagree. If it really worked that way, I’d have been smacked down years ago.
Last week, the Grand-brat and I were mowing. It was hot and bug-infested, and generally unpleasant, as mowing can be. We were weed-eating along the two-mile ditch and the kid was suddenly stricken with Ebola, or Dysentery, or maybe Histoplasmosis. He was suddenly unable to continue weed-eating, so I gave him a 15 minute break to get his affairs in order before his imminent demise. He stumbled off towards the seductively cool house while texting. He was either contacting his executor or saying goodbye to some random girl.
I continued weed-eating. I was actually in a good mood because I was lost in a memory of swinging a sickle on a hellish day decades ago. I was thankful I don’t have to do that anymore. The 15 minutes of kid-break came and went. The 30 minute point went by. I started thinking about how I could weld a sickle to the kid’s hands so he’d have to swing it forever. At about the 45 minute point, a well rested and cool teen ambled out of the house, still texting as he walked.
The reports contradict. The kid says I lost my mind. The wife said I threw a big-old fit. I say I was coaching him. I will concede I coached him in a loud manner, and I slung a modest amount of spit while I was coaching him.
I was still in a vicious coaching mood while I finished weed-eating and mowing well into darktime. She-who–rules-the-roost tried to talk me down, but my ears malfunctioned. I unintentionally ignored her as I put the lawn weapons away. The only thing left to do was lock the car and pout for a couple of hours. I reached in my pocket to get the $359 fob that Jeep gives you when you sell your soul to buy one of their cars. The $359 fob is essential because who wants a 32¢ key for a new car? Not me. Regardless, it was gone.
I checked in the Jeep, in the garage, and on every horizontal surface on the block. There was no fob. The spousal-unit said, “You acted like an idiot, and that’s why you lost the fob. It’s Karma.” She said something else, but I refused to listen to the crazy talk. I went out and sat on the much quieter porch until I got hungry and went inside. I was done with the subject of the fob, but she still had a few Karmic words for me. I had to eat crow before I could eat food.
The next morning, I skipped Matlock and went out to look for the fob. Me and my coffee walked a proper grid-pattern, hoping to find the missing key-thing quickly. I ran out of coffee before I ran out of yard. I refilled my cup and made the teen-slacker assist in the search. The wife said something, but I didn’t listen to her negativity. I took the kid outside to help, but he can’t keep on a grid to save his life. I loudly “coached” him again, but it didn’t help me find the fob.
My friend Jerry has every tool ever invented. I called on him, and he produced a couple of really big magnets. I drug them through the yard and through the ditch, to no avail. Hours later, I still didn’t have a fob, but I was tired, sore and mosquito-bitten.
There’s a guy, Ronnie, who has the rare tools Jerry doesn’t have. Ronnie has a magnet on wheels that is powerful enough to move compass needles in seven states. It’s so strong, the space station tried to land on it. I rolled that thing around the yard for hours. I found a muffler clamp, several washers, and some surgical staples from a passing guy’s chest. I found no fob. The wife gave me that smirking look that wives use on husbands.
The next day, I was at it again. I was sore from dragging the mega-magnet, but stuck with it, because of $359. Near evening, I felt defeated. I was at the last foot of the last strip of yard. As I was turning to go in for the night, I caught a glimpse. It was the fob. I found it! Prayers and persistence had paid off. I was redeemed and I saved bookoo (beaucoup) bucks.
I had invested about 36 hours, a tube of Ben-gay, and the kindness of friends in recovering the overpriced fob. I was very proud and thankful. I went in the house and held the fob aloft like I’d found the Holy Grail. She-who-is-not-impressed looked up. She said wife words. She said, “If you’d have listened to me, you’d know we have insurance on the fobs. They replace them for free. That’s what you get for acting like a jerk. It’s called Karma.”
I’m not listening to her crazy talk. Not doing it.
You can Email Charlie at firstname.lastname@example.org or write him at PO Box 378, Norris City, Il 62869. Crazy talk not welcome.
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