Future Husband, DANG That Bug Spray

Dear Future Husband,
There are a lot of things that I have gotten REALLY good at in my single years: managing finances, tending to repairs around the house (i.e. paying someone else to tend to repairs around the house), hooking up electronics, taking the garbage out, etc. I have ZERO qualms about bringing these skills to our future life…minus maybe the garbage part, that’s ALL you.

HOWEVER, there is one category that I will happily hand over. Car stuff.

While I DID negotiate the price and purchase my own car, and I DO regularly schedule oil changes and trips to the carwash, I REALLY HATE IT. Like a lot. And I especially despise when something breaks down.

No matter how knowledgeable I may be about brake rotors, suspension systems, starters or timing belts, the MINUTE I step foot into an auto repair shop and open my mouth, the man behind the counter takes one look at me and says something like, “Aw, you’re cute. Let me pat you on the head before I ask you to take a seat so the real people (AKA men) can look at your car. MMMk?”

Ok. Ok. The man behind the counter usually asks what’s wrong and then takes my number and says he’ll call once they’ve taken a look, but you KNOW he MEANT the former.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I began to notice an annoying rattling in my car. It sounded like it was coming from the trunk, so I, naturally, emptied my trunk. But the noise didn’t stop. Ugh. Then, I made a special note to pinpoint when the rattling would occur. And it occurred every time I hit the brakes. Great.

So, I put on my big girl pants, made an appointment at the auto repair shop, gritted my teeth and took my car in.

A few hours later, my phone rang. I prepared myself for the worst and answered.

“Uh, Ms. Waitin? We took a look at your car, and there is absolutely NOTHING wrong with your brakes. We checked the back, and found, uhm, <insert muffled laughter> two cans of bug spray rolling around your trunk, in the spare tire area. So, uhm, that noise you heard when you hit the brakes? Yeah…that was the cans moving back and forth. BUT, while you’re here, your brake fluid tested bad, you need a new air filter, your windshield wipers could stand to be changed, and when was the last time you had an oil change?”

I wish I could insert a pic of my “I’m-2.5-seconds-away-from-punching-you-in-the-throat” face here.

But alas, I didn’t feel like fighting and just told him to take care of it all.

When I went to pick up the car, the man, obviously gloating in his victory, HAD THE NERVE to SHOW ME the old, disgusting, newly-bagged air filter. Gross. And THEN he asked me if I wanted to take it home. To which I replied, “OH YES! Please! I’d like to frame it and put it on my wall.”

I guess he didn’t realize “cute” little car-clueless girls were capable of sarcasm, because his face changed, and he said, rather sheepishly, “really?

“OF COURSE NOT. That would be ridiculous.”

So, he threw away the dirty air filter, knocked a bit off the price and gave me my keys. Buh Bye.

PS. I feel like I need to be honest and let you know that I know nothing about brake rotors, suspension systems, starters or timing belts…I just wanted to prove a point.
PSS. I DO know how to change a spark plug. And by spark plug, I mean fuse. I really hope you know more about cars than I do…

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, DANG That Bug Spray

Future Husband, I Felt Sparks

Dear Future Husband,
Before I begin, I believe it is direly necessary to make it ABSOLUTELY clear that what I’m about to say has NOTHING to do with my grandparents or Sheesa.

Ok. With the disclaimer out of the way, allow me to continue:

Future Husband, as you might be aware, today is Valentine’s Day – the day the coupled-off world celebrates love and passion and feelings and sparks. So, in honor of this holiday, I’m going to risk being risqué and tell you about the time(s) I personally experienced sparks in the…GASP…bedroom…

Wait for it…

…at my grandparents house…while sharing a bed with Sheesa…when I was eight years old…and nine years old…AND ten years old (it happened a lot).

As I’ve mentioned before, there were ALWAYS charged emotions when Sheesa and I were forced to share a bed. Mainly because she breathed and moved her little toe, which obviously shook the ENTIRE bed and unnerved me to no end.

But the experience at my grandparents’ house was different. Little did we know, there was ANOTHER charge between those sheets. And it was called static electricity.*

Being eight or nine or ten years old, I did not understand this phenomenon. All I knew was that every time I – or Sheesa – moved, SPARKS LITERALLY FLEW.

And it scared the living crap out of me.

At any given moment, I thought we were one toss or turn away from catching the bed on fire and burning down the house. Thankfully, that never happened.

*Being the curious, intellectual and ever-learning woman that I am, I reached out to my high school Chemistry Honors/Chemistry II AP/Physics AP teacher for an explanation. Here it is: “Basically the kinetic energy of your hand moving was enough to dislodge the electrons of one material onto another material, causing a difference in electric potential. Once the difference was great enough, the voltage pushed the electrons to the lower energy state. The travel of electrons ionized the air, causing the emission of electromagnetic radiation – ‘sparks’.”

Huh? You DON’T still keep in touch with your science teacher from high school? Weird.

PS. If sparks fly in our bedroom, I’m changing the sheets.
PSS. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, I Felt Sparks

Future Husband, Don’t Trust The Google

Dear Future Husband,
I have a theory: In today’s digital world, I truly believe that you can find ANYONE online if you have a first name and two pieces of personal information. It doesn’t matter what the information is, as long you have two unique bits.

For example, my friends met an eligible bachelor who they thought just might be you. Unfortunately, they only knew his first name, his current city of residence and the field in which he was employed.

Within MINUTES I was able to determine his last name, the correct spelling of his first name, the company for which he works, the address of said company, the college and graduate school he attended as well as the past three cities in which he lived. Oh yeah, AND a picture (or two). Jack. Pot.

DISCLAIMER: I am NOT a stalker. I’m just very curious. I promise.

Anyway, as demonstrated above, this knowledge comes in very handy when trying to date these days. It can also be very annoying when you (meaning me) try very hard to avoid disclosing too much personal information BEFORE the first date.

Therefore, assuming that everyone has my mad investigating skills, I asked my friend to Google my first name as well as two pieces of information that I had provided on my online dating profile. Just to see. The info was pretty generic and ambiguous (on purpose), so I felt rather confident that I would remain undiscovered.

So, my friend went about her Google search and giggled – no – BELLOWED with laughter when the results populated.
I. KID. YOU. NOT. THIS is what the Google produced:

Born and raised in the woods, by a pack of wolves, Ima never quite ‘fit in.’ She always wondered ‘who am I, really?’ After years on the road making a living as a…

I swear. SHEESH. Sigh. I give up.

On the bright side, at least it’s a conversation starter?? Maybe?

PS. If you’ve Googled me and said NOT GONNA HAPPEN, give me a second chance…I’ve come a long way since the woods.

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, Don’t Trust The Google

Future Husband, I Expect Interest

Dear Future Husband,
I was sick last week. Like SICK. Like didn’t-make-it-into-work-A-SINGLE-DAY sick. I’ll spare you the full details, but my Mother suffered from something similar a month or so ago and summed it up nicely on her Facebook page:

“A potent stomach virus married a viral flu bug, and apparently their wedding reception venue is my body. They and all their evil friends have been partying it up pretty big, but Ibuprofen is finally starting to put a damper on their festivities. I’m so grateful for the best husband ever — he has taken such good care of me and been my lifesaver.”

In case you missed it, according to my Mother, HER LIFE WAS SAVED due to the “best husband ever.”

Regardless of the fact that hyperbole obviously runs in the family, she makes a good point: husbands REALLY come in handy when one is sick.

Please note that the aforementioned hyperbole references the statement that her life was saved due to the “best husband ever” and does NOT question the validity of my dad as actually BEING the “best husband ever” – you’ll have to take that one up with her.

Anyway, back to me and my misery. The matrimonial bugs must have known that I am open to marriage because they decided to resume their nuptial celebration in my I-have-no-husband-to-nurse-me-to-health-body. Lucky for you, I survived. And it was ALL thanks to Amazon Prime and the glorious invention of two hour shipping.

Who needs a husband when you can have Gatorade, Sprite, crackers AND toilet paper – !NEVER forget the toilet paper! – delivered STRAIGHT to your front door?!

Granted, had you been around I COULD have saved on the delivery fee. SOOOOOO, what I’m REALLY trying to say is: you now owe me $5. Thanks.

PS. I’m a businesswoman with an MBA, so you know I’ll be expecting a LOT of interest. Pay up!

Xoxo,
Ima Waitin

Future Husband, I Expect Interest