Scott’s on the patio, and I hear him sputter.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s just…your children,” he says.
My children. This oughta be good.
“What is it?” I ask, bracing myself.
“I don’t want to tell you,” he says, “because I screwed up.”
This is getting better and better.
“How?” I ask.
“Um. You know how you asked me to fix the spray-nozzle thingie on the hose?”
Oh, sure I remember that. I couldn’t get it screwed on right, and water kept squirting out at the connection and getting Jane or me all wet whenever we tried to water the plants. At last, in exasperation, I took the darn thing off and we’ve been watering with a thumb over the end of the hose, which isn’t much better. I am confident my hero hubby can screw the dang thing on properly so there’s no annoying squirtage.
Which is why I asked him to do it. [Date of request to be kept confidential so as not to incriminate my fabulous husband.]
So, yeah, I remember how I asked him to fix the spray-nozzle thingie on the hose.
“Why?” I ask him now, extremely curious to find out where this is going.
“It’s on the roof.”
From the Archives: Thanksgiving
Honey, I Don’t Even Know How to Spell It
It’s All a Blur