Wednesday, August 27, 2008

All The King's Men

The DNB asks for my help!

"I'm 90% done with removing the alternator from your car," he announces. "But I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong. It just won't come out. Would you . . . possibly . . . take a look?"

I'm in total disbelief. The fact that we're married does hint that we've met before. But when my car first started acting strangely, I did the only two things I know how to do on a car: added washer fluid and checked the oil.

He's so defeated after hours spent manhandling the thing that I oblige him, if only so he feels less alone in his frustration.

We scoot under the car, and I aim the the portable light above me. The french tips on my nails glow eerily.

"So. Where's the alternator?"

It almost goes without saying that although my dainty girl hands fit between belts, hoses, and wires that the DNB's do not, I am unable to remove the alternator. Although I do manage to convince the DNB that that pokey thing there on the end? I think you have to remove that part first.

Also, I somehow manage to GET A CROWBAR STUCK IN MY HAIR. As if you needed more proof that I should not be repairing cars.

My hair is in a high ponytail, and as I scoot this way and that under the car, I somehow manage to snag the crowbar just below my hair elastic, like the Bamm-Bamm of Mechanics.

"Is there . . . a CROWBAR . . . in my hair?" I ask the DNB.

He cranes his neck to look. "I have no idea how you did that. But yes, there is a crowbar in your hair."

Despite my brilliant analysis (remove that one thing), the crowbar adds to the absurdity of the situation, and the DNB is ready to give up. He curses the alternator. I decide some incentive is in order.


"Get this thing taken care of tonight, and I'll give you a blowjob," I tell him.

He ponders this for 1/2000th of a second before resuming work with vigor. But alas, he's still unsuccessfully bashing and tinkering when our neighbor, The Tattooed Builder, appears and offers to help. Twenty minutes later, the DNB appears in the kitchen, the alternator held aloft.

"That's right, bitches," he proclaims. "The Tattooed Builder just went in there with a screwdriver and started prying until it came out."

We spend the rest of the evening basking in the glow of a successful first half to our car repair saga. Then, I remember.

"You know what has to happen now, don't you?" I ask the DNB.

He looks up excitedly.

"Now I owe The Tattooed Builder a blowjob."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Holy Matrimony!! Let's hope mom doesn't read this...even though you are married.