"Do you know what you're doing?" Hossmom asks me. Of course I don't, what kind of question is that? I have about as much knowledge of car engines as a monkey does about driving a golf cart. That would be funny though.
"Yes honey, I know exactly what I'm doing. I've done this a million times." I have done this exactly 1 other time. But I tell her this because I'm a man and it's required by man law that I say this. I have two jobs to do today. I have to change the car battery and then change a headlight that went out. Both of which I have very little experience doing. The other time I changed a car battery it was on a 1980 Ford POS that I'm pretty sure still had a boiler and a midget shoveling coal.
"I'm just saying, if you just took it down to the auto store they would do it for you." she says.
Sure, they would do it for me and then I would ask if they would mind installing a vagina while I'm there with my skirt up. The man's mind, it makes no sense. I do not defend this but only acknowledge it.
"What are you doing now? Are you supposed to be loosening that thingy?" She continues to ask me.
Now I'm frustrated. I hate it when she helps me. I hate it when she calls bolts "thingys". I mean, come on, cut me some slack here. How dare she give advice to a guy that has absolutely no idea what he's doing? In reality I don't know if I should be loosening this thingy that keeps fucking stripping on me, but it looks right so I am going to loosen this thingy. God dammit, now I'm calling it a thingy. Doesn't she know who this all works?
First, I am going to break something that looks important. then I'm going to possibly unplug something that looks even more important. After that I am going to loose several important screws and thingys and cuss a whole lot. I'll possibly throw a tool and bang my head against the hood for a little bit. Then I'll put it all back together with duct tape and pray to my personal God that this hunk of junk doesn't come apart while she's doing 80 down the freeway next to a bus load of nuns. And in the end, I'll play it off like I completely knew what I was doing.
And as I have just dropped my wrench into the heart of the engine, I would say that I'm right on track.
Our whole marriage is based on this. It's getting harder and harder to impress her. I used to be able to lift something heavy and she would ooh and aah over it. But let's face it, I'm not a spring chicken anymore and it's getting hard to find reasons why to lift the couch up again. And even then I've got to deal with back pain for 3 days while maintaining that I'm fine and don't need to see a doctor about it. So unless I can do these simple car tasks, I might be out of a wife soon. And if that happens, I don't like my chances. I'll end up in black socks and boxer shorts on the front porch yelling at teenagers to get off my lawn while I'm scratching my belly. And in truth, I'm not that far away from that already.
This is why I like my daughter to help. She's easily impressed and believes anything that I tell her. So if I tell her that this bolt needs to come out because that "looks about right" then she says ok. She doesn't ask me if "I'm' sure" or suggest that I get a professional to help me. Help me take my money and my wife, no thank you.
"My hands are smaller, do you want me to reach in there and get it?" Hossmom asks one more time.
Seriously, I'm pretty sure Hossmom is trying to divorce me.