longbort:

sweethotnight:

sweethotnight:

sweethotnight:

It’s 9 in the morning when Marie, my beloved wife, returns from her morning jog. I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, minding my own business and eating my own olives, when she steps into the kitchen. I greet her.

“Marie, would you go out and get some motor oil today while I’m at work? I need the sensitive kind.”

“Todd? What the hell are you eating?” She goes to the fridge and gets a water bottle.

“Olives, Marie. They’re olives.”

“Olives? Who eats olives on their own at nine o’clock?” For Christ’s sake. Classic Marie, always asking questions she already knows the answer to.

“You know, I wish I could get through one olive breakfast without you tearing me down.” I screw the lid back onto the olive jar.

“Anywho, the motor oil.” I say. She looks at my dripping hands as I wipe them off on my necktie.

“You didn’t use a fork?”

“Real men don’t use forks, Marie. It was in Sports Illustrated or something. I thought you knew this.”

“Why can’t you just get motor oil this weekend? I have to go to the farmer’s market today.” She says.

“Marie, we need motor oil.”

“Fine. I’ll go after the farmer’s market. Just write down what kind I need to get so I can remember.”

“Sure thing.” I had already written a reminder for myself, so I pull this out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“Todd, this is just a piece of napkin that has ‘sensitive’ written on it. And it’s covered in olive juice.” Sometimes I wonder how my wife can be so dense.

“Yeah, Marie. Sensitive motor oil.”

“Sensitive?”

“Yes, like for sensitive cars.”

“Todd, are you putting motor oil on your skin?”

“No, I said it’s for the cars.”

“No, Todd, you just said the cars were sensitive.”

“The cars are sensitive.”

“Todd, they’re cars.” I can’t help but choke a little bit on the last olive I had been storing in my cheek. Christ. Marie takes a deep breath to calm herself down.

“Listen,” she says, looking into my eyes. “There’s no such thing as sensitive motor oil. There is literally no reason-”

“Nice phallus, Marie, but I-”

“Fallacy, Todd. Start over.” Damn it. She’s right. I start over.

“Nice fallacy, Marie, but I happen to have a leftover can in the garage.” Before she can say anything, I make my way into the garage and retrieve the can. I hand it to Marie so that she can read it for me.

“It says synthetic, not sensitive.”

“What?” Oh good Catholic God. No. This can’t be.

“It says synthetic, see?” Marie points to some letters on the can.

“What?” I croak. For the rest of my life, this guilt.

I hold my head in my hands and sink to my knees.

“Marie…”

“Todd, please get up.”

“Our sons, Marie.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t get off the floor.”

“Listen. I need to find sensitive motor oil.”

Marie leaves the room.

“In sickness and in health, you witch!” I yell.

With or without her, the time for action comes. I slowly get up, almost slipping on some olive juice Marie must’ve left on the floor to trick me. Typical. I make my way over to the computer and wrestle with it for several minutes until I get Google to come up. It’s at this time that Marie reenters the room, presumably to apologize for her irrational behavior.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“Nothing. I’m working on our little motor oil problem.”

“Can’t a guy get a more gentle motor oil?” She’s looking over my shoulder.

“What?”

“That’s what you’re googling. ‘Can’t a guy get a more gentle motor oil.’”

“Yeah, well, so what?” I say as she crosses the kitchen to start making herself some breakfast.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to use Google.”

“When did you become the king of computers, Marie?”

“When I majored in computer science.”

“Wow, look at you, king of computers. I prostate myself before thee.”

Marie sighs. “It’s prostrate, Todd. Prostrate. Do you want to start over?”

I ignore her. I have important work to do. I’m online for several minutes before I decide to get up and go check on the cars. I make my way into the garage carefully and quietly, so as not to wake them up. They need their rest. I look at them for several minutes, the two of them. I gently press my forehead against each of their hoods, whispering quiet apologies. I have to make it up to them.

As I head back into the kitchen, a brand new nightmare unfolds before my very eyes. Marie is sitting down, waiting for me by the computer. She beckons to me, tells me we need to have a talk.

“What?” is all I can manage. I can’t believe she’s distracting me like this.

“Todd, do you need help with Google?”

“No.”

“Honey, please, look at the screen. You’ve typed in ‘what’s the deal with this horrible motor oil.’ I think it’s time you learned to use a search engine. You can’t go on like this.”

“Go on like what?”

“It’s a twenty-first century skill, Todd.”

“Go on like what?” I push further.

Marie sighs. “You need to stop typing like that.”

“Typing like what?”

“Typing like you’re Jerry Seinfeld, Todd. Google doesn’t understand what you’re trying to search.” She’s grasping for straws. It’s time to use the ace up my sleeve. I’ve been preparing for this little debate for weeks.

“That’s why they’re called smartphones, Marie.”

“What?” Now I’ve got her.

“I said that’s why they’re called smartphones.”

“I don’t think I understand. It’s a computer.”

“Exactly. They’re like little computers you keep in your pocket. It’s amazing what we can do with-”

“Todd, this is a desktop computer. It’s not a phone.”

“I said it’s amazing what we can do with technology these days.”

Marie says something about being done with me under her breath, and leaves me alone with the computer to continue with her breakfast. However, I can’t keep up with Google. I’m too exhausted and distracted by this recent turn of events to even focus on the motor oil debacle. I decide to head into my private chambers to investigate something else. I take a seat on the bed and unlock my phone.

“Siri? It’s me, Todd. What’s the deal with my wife?”

“Let me have a look…”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t find anything for ‘What’s the deal with my wife.’ Sorry about that.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“You’re welcome.” God. Even worse than Marie.

“Siri, where can a guy like me get some sensitive motor oil?”

“Looking…”

“Please hurry.”

“Here’s what I found on the web for ‘Where can a guy like me get some sensitive motor oil.’”

Eureka. There’s an eBay listing. Motor oil. For sensitive cars only. Not a scam. Oh, thank god. It’s not a scam. I was starting to worry this was too good to be true. That’s when I notice the little wrinkle in my plan: It costs six thousand dollars. My fatherly instincts wrestle with my financial senses. I need to consult with someone trustworthy.

“Siri, do you think this is a good idea?”

“I’m sorry, Big Boy Worthless, I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“I don’t know what that means. If you like, I can search the web for-”

“It was just a phase. Please let it go.”

“I’m sorry.”

After sitting with my thoughts for several moments, I decide to dip into Marie’s savings to get the motor oil. It was a tough call, but the necessary choice was clear. I transfer six grand from Marie’s savings into my personal checking account and charge it to my credit card. Now, all I can do is wait.

Several days later I’m standing by the mailbox. Marie says that me standing out here all day doesn’t make the mail come any faster, but the Patriot Act begs to differ. They know I’m out here, and they’re embarrassed that their mail runs so slow.

Eventually the mail truck putters up the hill to our house. I’m handed one of those padded manila envelopes.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your package. Says it’s from eBay.” The mailwoman sounds like she smokes a pack a day.

“This isn’t what I expected. Can you tell them this isn’t what I expected?”

She throws up her hands and feigns ignorance.

“Here, for your trouble.” I say, and toss a small handful of stamps through the truck window and into her lap.

I head inside and tear open the package. Inside there’s a smaller envelope, which opens up to contain an even smaller one. This continues for several envelopes until a small handgun inside a plastic bag clatters onto the counter. Damn it. This guy must’ve gotten his orders mixed up. I definitely didn’t order a gun.

When I go to check the eBay page for the seller’s contact information, the page is nowhere to be found. It must’ve been deleted because the motor oil companies didn’t want their secret to get out. Regardless, I had to get that motor oil. I take the handgun, head to the garage, get in the car, and make my way to the post office.

As I approach the desk, I’m rudely told that the line starts back there, sir.

“Hey guys, it’s me, Todd. You know how I ordered that gentle motor oil from eBay? They sent me the wrong thing. Will you call them and tell them?”

“Sir, you have to wait in line.”

“Todd. My name’s Todd.”

“I-”

“Listen. You have to call them. It was six thousand dollars and I need-”

“Sir, please leave before I call someone to escort you from the premises.” Damn it. Bureaucracy is so stiff. Maybe they’d be more willing to help if I showed them what was sent to me by accident, and prove that there was a mistake. I go back outside to the car, grab the gun from where I had placed it up on the dashboard, and go back inside.

“Hey guys, Todd here. Look, I-” BANG!

Water sprays from the ceiling where the bullet was intercepted by a sprinkler head. Some people are screaming. I hear a “he’s got a gun!” and before I can explain to anyone that I got this from eBay, that it’s all a mistake, I’m tackled and pinned down by somebody I can’t see. The building is evacuated, and a moment later I can hear sirens wailing outside.

Everything that happens after that is a blur. I’m taken to jail, the serial number on the gun confirms that it was used to commit a number of murders for the drug cartel, and thanks to the public defender, I’m found guilty for all of them. Marie said that she couldn’t afford a lawyer, but I call bullshit. She’s been saving money for years. Next thing I know, I’m serving several life sentences, all because of my stupid wife.