Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Surprise!

My husband drives THIS van:

(Okay not THIS one but one that looks just like it.)  One that looks just like EVERY OTHER unmarked white van in America.  There are thousands.

Why unmarked?  Suspicious, right?  People are always asking me: Is he transporting bodies in there?  Working as a secret DEA operative?  Preparing to flee a crime scene?   

No, I assure you, frightened denizens of Suburbia.  He owns a heating and air conditioning business.  He comes to heat and cool your home.  He hasn't had his van painted and lettered yet because he's pretty sure he's going to change the company name.

So while my friends complain of never seeing their husbands, I can readily say that I see mine ALL THE TIME.  (At least I think I do.)  He's EVERYWHERE!   SOMETIMES I CAN SEE MORE THAN ONE OF HIM AT A TIME!

Yes, I wave at LOTS of unmarked white vans as I drive about town.  Many a tradesman has mistaken my attention for flirtation or outright stalking.  I know this because I often get the nod, sometimes get the leery eye, and worst of all, the pervtastic-construction-worker shout-out with the window rolled down. 

If there is a secret league of unmarked white van drivers, I'm sure my picture's on the wall.  I'm THAT girl.



So yesterday I get a call from hubby to meet him at a jobsite and pick up a check that he will be leaving on the front seat of his van.  He gives me directions.

In my currents state of GPS-less-ness, I only manage to find the street.  I don't remember the house number.  But oh look!  There's an unmarked white van!

I pull up behind it, run to the driver side door (I am about to be late for carpool) and SWING open the door. 

Imagine my surprise to find a van full of Mexican painters.

Imagine THEIR surprise when a small white chick swings their door open and very nearly launches herself into the driver's lap.

FUCK!  I think.  I'M GOING TO GET SHOT!

¡Qué demonios!  They think.  Inmigración!

"Ohmygosh!" I say. In my state of shock I can't remember how to say sorry in Spanish.  "I'm so sorry!  Excuzez-moi! (WRONG.)  I mean perdon! I'm--ohmygosh--I have the wrong van!"

All six of them are shouting at me in Spanish at the same time.  I slam the door on them, run back to my car, and peel out of there. 

One block up, parked in front of another house, is another unmarked white van.  Probably the right unmarked white van.  The one with the check in it.  But I'm totally freaked at this point and I'm not taking any more chances so I drive past it and start to make my way out of the neighborhood.  F the check.  I'm  outta here.

My husband calls.  "Did I just see you drive right past here?  HELLO! Turn around!"

No, I tell him.  I have PTSD now.

Besides, if I just keep driving I'm sure I'll see him again.

He's everywhere.

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