There really is no spare in the trunk

By Sherri Coner-Eastburn

---

I’m fairly sure that all couples have days (or weeks, months and years) when they hate each other’s guts.

Days when that significant other’s voice makes you want to projectile vomit. Days when you catch yourself wondering how in the world you ended up married to a moron.

The weirdo mystery of marriage is that you can have that “hate your guts” attitude for several days and then turn right around and be in love again. Just like that. Over nothing in particular.
The number one ways my husband can make me loathe his existence? A) slurping liquid from a cup, glass or soda can and b) picking his teeth, right in front of me, with his mouth so wide open that I can see his stomach lining.

Actually, he probably has a much longer list of ways that I stomp on his patience. But I’d say one of the top five has to be that I’m a walking pig pen. This is not on purpose, okay? It just somehow happens…all over the house, in the closet and in my car.

“No wonder you lose everything,” he grunted yesterday. “You need a shovel to get past the shoes and clothes thrown on the closet floor.”

“Creative people are messy people,” I sniffed.

Well, I’ve got to tell you the story of the latest ground war. The last one occurred a couple of weeks ago when the neat-freak farmer tossed my flower pots in the trash. This time, the sparks flew over a flat tire.

We have been married almost three years, and this was my fourth flat tire.

“What do you mean?” he grumbled. “How can one person possibly experience so many tire problems?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But it’s obviously dark outside. The car isn’t drivable. Please pick me up.”

The moment I snapped my cell phone closed, I realized I’d better get the junk out of the passenger seat and the floorboard of my beloved little two-seater before Mr. Museum Clean arrived.

Quickly, I grabbed it up (okay, it took three trips) and stuffed all the junk into the trunk.

A few minutes later, the farmer arrived. He slid out of his truck, obviously honked off about the latest tire trouble and sighed.

“What did you hit? The curb? What?” he asked.

I shrugged because I really don’t know — ever — what I do that causes me to be the number one customer at Goodyear.

“Well, let’s see if there’s a spare in the trunk,” the farmer said. Dang it.

I caught my breath, sure that when he popped the trunk and saw the junk, his skinny little nearly bald head would pop right off his shoulders.

“There isn’t a spare,” I lied.

“You already looked?” he asked.

“Yep,” I lied again. “So let’s just go home. I’ll deal with the tire tomorrow.”

Because I have only bad luck, the farmer turned around, popped the trunk and said a long paragraph of cuss words under his breath.

“How could you know whether a spare is in this truck?” he said in a low voice. “You can’t see the trunk.”
Then he started to throw my stuff on the pavement.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” the farmer said as he continued to toss stuff over his shoulder.
“You go through tires like no one I’ve ever known. You’re so messy. You make my neck stiff from stress, you know that? I have a very stiff neck now, thanks to you.”

“It’s not easy to be me,” I said, near tears.

“I’m sure it isn’t,” the farmer said. “And sometimes, it’s not easy to be me trying to deal with you.”

While I moved my stuff from the trunk back to the floorboard, the farmer snapped off his flashlight and motioned toward the truck.

“We’ll deal with the tire tomorrow,” he said. “My neck is way too stiff to change a tire tonight.”

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.