It’s been a pretty eventful week here at the Impropers. I’ve been a busy little bee getting shit done. That’s what I do. GET SHIT DONE.
This morning, I was sitting here at my computer getting more shit done and the mister calls sounding very sheepish. He says, “You’re going to kill me, but I need you to call a locksmith. I locked the keys in the car and I have a meeting in an hour and it’s going to be pushing it. I’m really sorry, babe.”
Now, you may be wondering what kind of ball-crushing wife I am for my husband to call me so tail-between-the-legs like for an honest to goodness mistake people make all the damn time. Well, let me tell you why.
BECAUSE THE IDIOT DOES IT ALL THE DAMN TIME. ALL the damn time. I’m sorry for the screaming. But, you guys, if you were in my head right now, you’d know some bolded capitalized letters here is the understatement of a lifetime. My blood pressure is through the roof.
Again, you might be thinking, “Jeez, Kel. Cool it. It’s not that big of a deal.” And you might be right. IF- and hear me when I say if, please- IF I hadn’t also just locked the keys in the car this past weekend and had a little experience of my own.
You see, I took Elle to a birthday party at a skating rink about a half hour away on Sunday. I hadn’t had lunch yet so I took her in and then went back to the car to eat in some peace and quiet. When I got out of the car…blah blah blah. Locked out.
So, I called the man (the husband) and told him what an idiot I am and asked for some help. He said, ask someone that works there for a wire hanger and then see if you can get someone to help you. Fine, I will humiliate myself and do that. I got the hanger. Everyone who worked at said skating rink was 12. There were two men at the rink. One was 80 and one looked like he just got out of the federal pin for pretending to help a woman get the keys out of her car and then sticking her in his van and taking her across state lines for god only knows what.
So, I called the man again and said he was going to need to get his ass of the couch and COME HELP A BITCH OUT. Which he did. Along with his dad. Which I am forever grateful for. Thank you, dad. NO THANK YOU, JIMMIE.
Fast forward to today, because this is where it gets goooood. I maintained my decorum and was the nice wifey. I called a locksmith. He said he’d have someone call me right back. Seven minutes lapsed and I called another locksmith. Because we are on a time crunch for an important meeting. That person was on their way before I even hung up the phone. And they were $15 bucks cheaper. They win.
While on the phone with hubby, first locksmith finally calls. I miss it. I call back. No answer. I call back again. No answer.
Phone rings 5 minutes later and some *ahem* not very good English speaking person (no problem there, except I couldn’t totally understand him.) starts YELLING at me. “WHY YOU CALL SO MANY COMPANIES TO GET YOUR HUSBAND’S DOORS UNLOCKED LADY??”
I said, calmly, “Because the number I initially called did not call me back for over 10 minutes. By the time you called me, someone else had already returned my call and was on the phone with my husband already almost there. And don’t you ever call yelling at a potential customer. I’m sorry for the inconvenience for you, but this is poor customer service and you are RUDE.”
He said, “Oohhhhh Drama Queen, huh?”
I said, “You haven’t begun to see drama queen you pathetic son of a bitch. Go to hell.” (Or something like that. I don’t completely remember because I think I was in the middle of a stroke my blood pressure was so fucking high.”
Drama Queen? You damn right you pansy ass little door unlocker. And I have your phone number. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN.
Whew. Okay, I am okay. I will not maim and destroy poor locksmiths. I will not lose my shit. I will not lose my shit. Peaceful Zen thoughts and Xanax to begin now.
Aaaannnnd I’m off to Walmart for a freaking magnetic hide-a-key thingy. And our next car will have keyless entry. And AAA. And anything else that will get my idiot husband into his car without costing over fifty bucks a pop.
Pass the Tylenol.