Saturday, November 7, 2015

My week sure got off to a bad start.

Sunday. The Lion's game. No elaboration necessary.

Monday. My dentist appointment. I go in to get a filling and find out I a need a root canal. Which means a crown. Which means hundreds of dollars. I'm warned if I don't get it, I might be flying one day and feel such agony I'll be writhing in pain in the aisle. I opted for the looming agony.

Tuesday. Brett's doctor's appointments. As usual, there isn't a single available parking spot. My handicap parking pass is obviously useless. I wonder if all the handicap passes are legitimate. I wonder this only because the handicapped spaces in the employee lot are always taken, too--not by handicapped people but rather by those that can leap out of their cars like jackals and sprint for the bus.

I finally spot someone leaving and creep behind them to get their spot. It's not a handicapped spot, so I need to angle my van so it's T-boning the car next to me. It gives me just enough room to get Brett out and park him safely against the wall, get back in the van and straighten it out.

Same rigamarole when we leave. Wheel Brett over to the wall, get in the van and slowly angle it into the T-bone formation. As I'm doing this, some guy yells out, "Lady, you trying to pull in or out?"

I force a smile, "I'm gonna be a while." Move along friend. I can hear the muttering, "Inept bimbo's like that shouldn't be allowed to drive."

I get Brett loaded up, finally ready to leave, and can't get the van in gear. I keep trying, fiddling with the gear shaft, getting more and more violent, feeling like I could break it off. Please God, please God, please God.

I'm so tense, it's like PMS on steroids. And who gets to feel the brunt of all this frustration? Bob. Poor guy. As if he doesn't have enough on his plate.

I get his voicemail. No, "Hey babe, I'm having a little trouble getting my van in gear."

Quite the contrary, it's a clenched teeth, "PLEASE PRAY!!! I can't get this STUPID van in gear." No hello, no goodbye.

I take a deep breath, utter another prayer and finally get it in gear.

Bob calls me back and I'm still tense and angry. He says he wishes I wouldn't get this way. It is decidedly the wrong thing to say.

He sends me a text after I get home suggesting we get a sitter so we can go out for a margarita. It is decidedly the right thing to say.

Not that I think alcohol should be our "go-to" (we'd be a couple of drunks if it was), but because it got us out alone and gave me a chance to tell Bob how much I appreciate him and all he does. If we'd stayed home, the TV would have been on, I'd have had my nose in a book and he'd of fallen asleep on the couch.

Instead, we talked about all we have to be grateful for, especially each other. It did wonders for my attitude, gratitude always does.