When we were still car-shopping and test-driving new cars awhile back - we had a genuine concern with the Jeep's door locks. Without warning they smack down and can pinch the underneath of your arm.
I'm soooooo glad we bought the Jeep.
Friday night, we're leaving the 'rents house. Harry is navigating the alley road with ease in his pretty new car when - WHAM! The locks engage and he howls: "OWH - MY BABY FAT!" He's rubbing his tender white underarm and then looks at me accusingly while I stifle my giggles unsuccessfully.
"You're NOT putting that in your blog."
"Hell I'm not! 'My baby fat! OH! My BABY FAT'" I mock like the good wife I am. "Oh - that's great - BABY FAT!" I'm hornking like a seal with laughter and he's looking at me with big mournful eyes.
"They're gonna make fun of me at work..." I should feel bad for him at this point.
But I don't.
BABY FAT!!!! AHAHAHAHAH
Saturday rolls around and we're in a different vehicle. Even after the "Baby Fat" incident of the previous night, Harry is nice enough to give up his space in the garage and let me put the white corvette in the left bay and the elephant, oops, 'scuse me, the DENALI in the right one.
"Wanna go for a drive?" he asks from the comforts of the red leather seat.
"Sure." I hop in and, after the usual grunting and groaning to fasten my non-fat-ass friendly seatbelt, we're off.
"Crap!" I yell.
"What?" Harry asks me.
"I can't find my sunglasses, I must've left 'em in the Jeep. CRAP!" I can't stand to be out in natural sunlight without shades. I'm like a Gremlin. Only more aggrieved.
"Here - you can have mine and I'll get the spare out of the console." He hands me a pair of Oakley's that engulfs my face. I look like Arnold in Terminator 2 after fighting with the liquid metal guy and losing most of his skin.
"Thanks, babycakeshead." I settle back in the seat and then, without warning, Harry rips the glasses from my face.
"HOLLY!" he bellows with a smidge of condescension as he replaces the sunglasses on to the bridge of his perfect nose.
"What? WHAT?!" I squint in the sun.
"You'll figure it out."
"WHAT?!" He refuses to answer me.
I sink back and start to adjust my headband - and find my sunglasses sitting on my head.
I cannot close this retelling of the past weekend's events without touching on "Perverted miniature golf".
Saturday night, Harry and I went out with another married couple. They have a brand new beautiful baby boy so their time is limited - we were happy to get to see them so when Putt-Putt was mentioned - I gritted my teeth and agreed to go - warning all of my tendencies to get bored after about eight holes of the "sport."
The boys in the group, Harry and Johnny, immediately start in heavy competition. Not to get the best golf score. No. Both were trying their hardest to make every phrase uttered into one that was not for the faint of heart.
"You're up by one stroke!" we'd say and then brace ourselves for the inevitable comments: "That's what SHE said! heh heh heh!" or "That's all it usually takes! heh heh heh!"
Finally, Julie and I surrendered and just waited it out. The boys eventually stopped commenting and just started sniggering instead. All was calm until this moment:
"Hey, Holly! Just hit the ball hard (snigger, snigger) and I'll knock it in for ya!" Harry stood at the end of a complicated green, waving his putter for all to see (hee hee).
Harry watched as my pastel purple ball flew past him and plunked into the 2,000 flushes blue pond.
"I got it!" he yelled.
The abused golf ball flew up into the air and directly towards the group ahead of us - almost making it into the hole two greens up.
"I can get it from there!" Harry dashes, putter held above his head, and lines up his shot - from two greens away.
A plus-sized gentleman in ill-advised Hawaiian flowered shorts saw his life flash before his eyes as Harry aimed for the appropriate hole (heh heh).
The man jumped up in the air, performing a lop-sided pirouette and landing just after the ball zoomed past his ample calf and landed in a bush.
I'm so glad Harry "helped me" with my game of golf. And my score - of 55.
Yes - 18 holes. Score of 55. You do the math.