Ducks Mahal

It is my birthday today. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. You decide and let me know. Thanks to you guys who wished me a good one.

And therein lies how this post connects to the title. I’m at the Honda Dealer – on my birthday.

You see, my wife’s Honda Fit needed a set of tires because when she’s not driving up and down country roads through ditches and potholes chasing and feeding stray dogs, she driving like a bat out of hell to work, where hell means fire and fire means peeling rubber, normally an hour drive each direction for you and me, 20 minutes for her. The dealer messed up the tire pressure sensors so I’m back for a redo [French: redeaux]. Her car is a year old and already has 40,000 miles.

There is usually all of a half hour in the evening for me to listen to my wife talk about her day (uninterrupted) after she arrives home, then we eat the dinner I’ve prepared before she arrived, then off to beddy-bye times in her own suite to surf the net or in her art room to paint. The next day the cycle starts again. On the weekends she sleeps until 10:00, then after the first cup an hour in the bathroom primping and preening. By noon on the weekends, she’s off to routine retail therapy. Somewhere in all that commotion I’m graced with a BJ on the run, so long as it doesn’t take longer than 8 minutes, 32 seconds. I tell you, if I’m not a sugar daddy, I need to change my deodorant.

So here I park my weight loosing Nutrisystem ass on my birthday in the Honda show room listening to piped-in Sheryl Crow music and watching sales guys and other dealership personnel cantering figure-eights around the cars in a mindless dance they have rehearsed since working here. They figure-eight then park it for a few minutes, all in the name of looking busy. I am certain they figure-eight at home because they are programmed like little fury brown and white rodents in a glass cage complete with tread mills and obstacles that imitate the real forest. The paradox here is comical to me. I can hardly contain myself as I review all these handsome and smart new model Honda cars whose only mission in life is to take us somewhere far, far away. And therein lies why I cannot even imagine containing my wife anymore than I can contain the wind.

My birthday wish? My wife still keeps returning home and doesn’t stray too far one day for good, hoping somehow, somewhere in her travels she considers me her true north. I set sail on a great exciting trip complete with all sorts of adventures and maybe even get hit on by a statue-esque woman who looks like Sophia Loren to remind me that at age 53, I still got it.

And the dealer fixes the car – right this time.