Remember the big hoopla over that book about men and women being from different planets? Okay, when that came out, did anyone else besides me think, “And your point?”
Any married woman has had a couple (or 4200) moments in her life when she's looked past her Prince Charming tinted glasses and realized it's useless. Useless to try logic, emotional reasoning, or “But it was on sale!” when dealing with the opposite sex.
You flip, he flops. You break out in hives at the sound of jazz, he finds it extremely relaxing. You'd kill for dance lessons; he'd rather die. You primp for a night out; he props his feet on the coffee table. You could throw the television remote in the fireplace and never look back. He could trade you in for the remote and never look back. Well, maybe he'd make a little glance back when he runs out of clean boxers.
Am I supposed to be talking about the glove compartment here? Oh. Sorry.
So, the other day our family was driving home from a weekend trip.
“Mom?”
“Yes, son?”
“I need a Band-Aid. Do you have one?”
From behind the wheel of my mommymobile, my husband muffled a snortish “Duh.” I translated this to mean, “You had to ask? You wouldn't believe the junk she's got stuffed in here.”
I ignored him (A tip on page 3 of The Marriage-Saver Manual, authored by my mother) and focused on my maternal task. Band-aid. Child needs band-aid. Open glove compartment. Retrieve first aid box, labeled, “First Aid, Rinehart.” Open box and locate midsize bandage under the full sizes, minis and tweezers. Hand back to needy child. “Big enough? I have others.”
Not only did I have other size bandages, plain and decorative, I had waterproof adhesive tape, safety scissors, a genuine Swiss Army Knife (just one item in a long line of romantic Christmas gifts from my husband), CPR mouth piece, thermometer, gauze, antibiotic ointment, anti-itch cream and our doctor's business card taped to the lid.
In the rear of the van, I kept the air compressor, tire gauge, flares, WD-40, window cleaner, rags, jumper cables, bungee cords, flashlight, batteries, maps for the entire eastern United States, sunscreen, rain ponchos, ac/dc adapter and duct tape.
Once home, I shouted, “Honey, come help me lift this seat so I can dig out the french fries. Honey? Come on, I'll let you keep the coins this time.” I glanced into the garage and saw my husband's weary face illuminated by his glove compartment light.
He was staring at his owner's manual, two golf tees and a used toothpick. “But I was a Boy Scout,” he whimpered.
“It's okay,” I patted his shoulder. “At least I know what to get you for Christmas.”
Karen Rinehart is a magazine humor columnist, public speaker and the creator of The Bus Stop Mommies, a newspaper. She is also author of Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life. You can read more of her work at karenrinehart.net. Karen lives in Concord, North Carolina with her two kids, one husband and goofball dog, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dog at home.) She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan and England.
