“But I’m not going to Canadian Tire,” I said after Hubby informed me I had to buy wiper blades since he just broke one on the car.
“You said you were going to Walmart. It’s right across the street.”
“But I changed my mind. I’m going to Bedford Place Mall instead.”
“You can take the truck if you want, and I’ll take the car.”
I didn’t want to take the truck. “Never mind, I’ll go.”
I should have been grateful, I guess. Hubby had left for work that morning, forgetting to clear the snow off the car and turn it around in our awkward driveway as he had promised. He had actually gotten all the way to work before he remembered, not that his office is that far. Yes, I should have been grateful he returned to ready the car for me. But dammit, I hate buying car stuff. And he was the one who broke it!
“What size do I get?”
Hubby recited the info I would need: make, model, etc. “And get them to install it. You don’t want to ruin the windshield. If they can’t do it, come to the office and I’ll do it.”
It should be a simple matter to buy a wiper blade, right? I drove to Canadian Tire, careful to not turn on the wipers while I drove, and stood in line for fifteen minutes before remembering I could look up the blades myself. I was not surprised to see a computerized gadget instead of numerous plastic pages, which is what I had used the last time I bought blades. I inputted the specs and scrolled through endless blades, all different sizes and prices. Hubby would be mad if I bought the cheapest at $9.99, but I wasn’t about to spend $50 or more. After debating between $14.95 and $19.99, I selected the $19.99, just to keep him happy.
Then I realized blades are sold singly. Why? Of course, Hubby hadn’t told me which side was broken. I charged outside. After several minutes, I determined the passenger side, which seemed to be bent at an odd angle, was the culprit.
After twenty minutes searching for the correct number of the blade I had selected, I finally found it, paid, and left. I wasn’t waiting an hour for automotive service to replace the blade.
As luck would have it, it was raining when I exited. There went the rest of my shopping spree. Hubby wouldn’t be happy if I landed at his office, expecting him to install the blade in the rain. And I wasn’t about to drive with rain pelting the windshield. I went home.
When hubby returned home that evening, he looked at the package and informed me it was the driver’s side that was broken.
“Sure didn’t look it,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I didn’t know they were sold singly,” he said.
What? A car buff like him doesn’t know that?
“Okay, I’ll have to go back tomorrow,” I said.
Today (tomorrow) looks like a Christmas wonderland, with a couple of feet of snow. The car is covered. Hubby didn’t clean it off or turn it around.
Hubby has sent me to do a man’s job several times in the past, never with pleasant results. I’m not a man; I’m a woman. I don’t know the first thing about car parts; I don’t want to know, truth be known. However, time passes and one forgets past horrid experiences—until episodes are re-lived.
“Don’t send a woman to do a man’s job” is going to be my mantra in the future.
I sent Hubby an email: “Since I can’t get out today, can you pick up a wiper blade at Canadian Tire? (Driver’s side!)”