I'm Grounded

Here I am at home for a week. My car is in the body shop. They said it will be done next Tuesday. Our insurance didn’t cover renting a car, so ... I’m grounded.

My desk is so clean. I’ve returned phone calls. I’ve written newsletter articles. I actually read the entire NY Times this morning, trying to figure out what Russia is up to in Georgia. Oh, I have to tell you, my daughter, the one who travels a lot for business, had to fly to Atlanta this week. One of her co-workers actually said, “Are you sure its safe to go to Atlanta this week? Didn’t you hear that the Russians have invaded Georgia?”

The sad part is: she wasn’t kidding.

Anyway, I read all about that conflict. And about Afganistan. And Algeria. It was way too depressing. I put down the newspaper and moved into the Most Beautiful Kitchen in Brookfield. In preparation for being housebound, I bought enough groceries on Monday to cook for an entire Senior Citizen’s Center for the rest of the summer. So yesterday I made: barbequed baby-back ribs in the slow cooker, using some apple barbeque sauce that a houseguest had brought as a gift, homemade potato salad - some of the best I’ve ever eaten – if you like mayonnaise potato salad, it’s definitely worth the bother, let me tell you – and apricot jam and blueberry jam. Not that we eat so much jam; I give it as Christmas gifts. At least I do in the years I have time to make it. I was planning to also make peach jam and peach blueberry jam too, when I discovered I had no more Certo. Dang!

I went back to reading depressing news until The Man Who Is Still Employed came home with his car. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said. “Just have to run to Pick ‘N Save for one thing.” The Man was curling up on the sofa for his after-work nap as I tooled off.

It only took a few minutes to find the Certo at Pick ‘N Save, but then... I couldn’t find the car. I searched up and down the aisles. It was getting dark. The Man With The Appetite would be waiting. I knew where I parked. I thought. But my car was not there. I tried other aisles. No car. I remembered the time we lost our car at the airport, and was just thinking that maybe it got stolen – when I remembered... I was looking for the wrong car! I didn't drive my Prius there. Duh! I was standing right next to The Man’s Camry. I snuck a peak around to see if anyone was watching me and slunk into the Camry and zipped home.

“I was getting hungry,” commented The Man when I walked in, carrying one small bag with Certo. Just so he wouldn’t feel too smug, I said, “Do you remember that time at the airport where I waited and waited for you to pick me up after you’d gone to get the car? Well, that’s what took me so long. I couldn’t find the Prius.”

A few years ago we flew back to Mitchell Airport from a trip somewhere. I remember that it was night and it was winter. We’d probably gone to Costa Rica or some other tropical place. The Man said, ‘You get the luggage. I’ll circle the airport until you get outside.”

I waited. Our luggage came. I dragged it outside. It was 40 degrees and raining, as I recall. I watched for The Man’s car. Other cars were driving in circles, watching for their people to pick up. No Man Of Mine. I waited. I was dressed for a far better climate than Wisconsin in January. After 20 minutes or so, I dragged the luggage back into the terminal and waited inside. After 45 minutes, I was just about to call the airport police to see if The Man had been mugged in the parking garage, when he pulled up.

“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded. (As you can see, I’m not as sweet as The Man is under such circumstances.)

“Looking for the car,” he replied, somewhat sheepishly. The Man With The Family’s Remaining Functioning Brain Cells always knows in exactly which aisle and on which level of the parking garage we have parked our car. Doesn’t matter if we’re gone 5 days or 5 weeks. He knows. So he went to where he knew the car was. But it wasn’t. He hiked all over that level of the parking garage. And then another level. Finally a security guy picked him up. He told him he couldn’t find our car. They drove around the structure, while the cop eyed him with suspicion. Though My Man doesn’t look like a guy who would be breaking into cars, you never know... Well, after covering the whole building, the security guy says, “ Are you sure you parked inside the parking garage?”

We travel a lot these days. Our kids are out of town. We fly to their houses. We fly for vacations. We always park inside the parking structure. It’s a few dollars more, but so much more convenient when you come home dragging your butt that’s been stuffed in an airplane seat for hours - or days. So The Man knew the car was inside, about where we always park it.

But it wasn’t. Who knows why we parked it outside this time. But we did.

Thank goodness it wasn’t me that lost the car – that time. Of course I never admitted that I would have been looking inside the parking structure too.

Stirring the Pot