This is the last weekend before my sister-in-law comes and we go on our holiday. Now that it is Sunday I can officially declare that Kate is coming this week! Naturally, when you have guest come to stay, you clean your house from floor to ceiling, but the real work is pretending you live like that all the time. Yesterday, the first order of business was to wash ‘Cracking Rosie”, our blessed little Kia Rio.
Sorry, I’m trying something different with my hair (and experimenting with lip fillers) and now I look like Cameron Diaz. Oops! Not intentional. I had to get a restraining order for that guy in the background cause he kept screaming that there was “Something about Mary”, when all I was trying to do was suds up my sweet ride.
Wow, I really do look different as a blond, don’t I? I haven’t eaten a meal in about sixteen years, but I can wear a size zero, and to me, that’s more important than things like cheese, booze and bowel movements.
Anyway, we’re at the car wash, my husband and I, with Cracking Rosie. There are about eight stalls altogether, and they are all occupied with bad-ass pick up trucks. It was like “Bring Your Big-Sexy-Truck to the Car Wash Day”, and Ben missed the memo. He is washing, rinsing and waxing the tiny red vehicle with this brave, stoic, stiff upper lip. I know he appreciates coming to Canada and immediately having a vehicle on-hand. But I think he’s grown tired of sharing a vehicle that requires his now famous “two-pronged attack”, where he has to wedge his upper body into the car, press his weight onto the arm rest, and finally he swing his long legs in behind the wheel. I know he’d like to have his own wheels, his own vehicular space that he could fill with tools, and other man things…like big slabs of meat, boats and guns. Instead he is washing Rosie, while I consistently get underfoot like an untrained puppy, asking whether or not he thinks “I’m a good helper”.
I know right? I’m not even washing the car, and I’m spraying the ground! And no good can come of letting that soap dry like that.
In a tantalizing row of trucks that are so big I would require a step ladder, that size suits my seven-foot tall husband just fine. He looks longingly at the vehicles. And I feel kind of sad for him. I know owning a truck is his Canadian dream, it’s the first thing he’s get when we receive a positive word from Immigration Canada. He wants a truck as badly as I do a book deal…or skinnier thighs. Yeah…that’s badly. But it’s not his time, nor is it mine evidently. And so, we are to make do with the possessions we already have, share them like well-behaved children, and shine them up like new, until the day comes that we get all the things that we desire.