Don't Do It!!!

Winners, Winners, Winners!!

Since I had so many comments, I'm going to give away three prizes. Wendy, Deblwalker, and CheekyGirl, please email me at Christie (at) Christie - Craig (dot) com (No spaces)and let me know which of my novels you would like or if you have all of them, I'll send you a surprise book of one of my friends.



((Because today I'm feeling lucky to be alive, I'm giving away a prize to one lucky poster. See details below.))

Today, I had this very inspirational blog planned about connecting to the passion in your life, but something happened. My hubby happened.

Yup, get ready for another hubby story. I’m not sure if it’s as good as “spot cleaning” or the “Burger King while in labor” stories, but it’s close. It involves a non-advice-taking hubby (will they ever learn?), a titty bar (No I have not gone into another profession), a pothole/sinkhole the size of Cleveland, and three non-English speaking, rope-toting, titty-bar-attending men. Do I have your interest yet?

Hubby is taking me out on a date. How special. That should have been my first clue that something wasn’t going to go right. Now, don’t go jumping to conclusions about him taking me to a titty bar, either. The titty bar just happened to be there as did the pothole, and the large-busted woman walking across the fine establishment’s parking lot, which some might blame for us landing in the pothole.

But first, back to the date. It included a nice dinner, grilled Amberjack, baked potato and hot French bread and butter. Yum. The dinner was top notch. The movie?: The Time Traveler’s Wife. I would argue that it got a C+. It had me sobbing about miscarriages, death, and frostbite. Well, after the movie, the date went downhill. Rapidly. And when I say down, I mean several feet down. Add the mud, and the muddy water and I’d have to give the overall date a C. Not an F because let’s face it. I got a blog out of it, and you got some entertainment. Hubby, he just got himself in all sorts of trouble.

The downhill portion of the date started after we left the movie. Hubby, driving around the block to get back on the main freeway, passes the titty bar. Now it’s eleven P.M. on a Saturday night, meaning the establishment is hopping, and the lights are flashing, Girls, Girls, Girls. And yup, crossing the well-lit parking lot is one such girl. Big Texas hair, and her dynamic duo pair, Lucy and Ethel, were Texas super sized.

Hubby makes his turn. Now, I was not going to accuse Hubby of being distracted by the woman, but he seemed to think it was important, and I’ll explain why I think this is in a minute. Nevertheless, there’s a woman, there’s a turn, and there’s this water filled hole taking up a forth of the road, the ditch, and some of the woods.

As hubby is mid-turn the headlights hits the object of my concern. Not the woman, mind you, but the freaking huge pothole/pond. How big is it? Well, I swear if I’d brought my fishing pole I could have caught a fish in it big enough to mount on the wall. Hubby slams on his brakes. Yup. He slams on his brake just before the passenger-side tire of the car falls into the hole.

Wow! We are saved. I catch my breath. Then hubby does his man thing. You know the one when a man leans up, peers over the wheel and out the windshield, to see how close he came to disaster.

I look at him and my heart starts pumping because I see it in his eyes, the no-big-deal attitude that gets men in trouble. I grab his elbow. “DON’T DO IT!!” I say.

He looks at me. Yes, he actually looked at me! Gave me the…I-got-this-babe look, releases his foot off the brake, and inches forward. Now, he’s an engineer and I still don’t understand how he figures that driving slow into a pothole is going to bring about different results than driving fast into a pothole?

It happens . . . Bam! The front tire (on my side) falls into the pothole. The car is hanging a good three feet down. Can I remind you that there’s water in the hole and I’m not sure how deep this hole goes? Water is lapping against the bumper. I’m checking to see if it’s coming into the car.

Hubby’s eyes dart to me. I see it in his gaze. Not fear. Not remorse. I see that he knows he screwed up and this is going to be blogged about.

Immediately, he puts the car in reverse. The car’s tires spin, spewing water under the car. He puts the car in forward. Steps on the gas, spews more water.

I decide not to panic—decide to control my urge to escape and open the door and fall into the who-knows-how-deep sinkhole. Instead, I look at hubby and calmly ask. “What part of DON’T DO IT! did you not understand?”

He chooses not to answer, probably on the grounds that whatever he says will be used to incriminate him. Instead, he gets out of the car.

Now, he’s not exactly a heavyweight, but without his weight in the driver’s side, the car dips down a little further. I grab the dashboard and question my next move. Most of which involves me hitting my husband with something and I wonder, should I try to climb over the gearshift and get out of the car?

I’m holding my breath, watching him look at the front of the car, then he does it. He shakes his head, turns and heads across the street right to the titty bar. I wonder if he knows how badly he’s screwed up and decides to go be entertained by naked women because he’s pretty sure he can’t make it any worse at this point.

He walks around the parking lot. The big busted, big haired woman, having heard our little accident, is watching, then much to my hubby’s credit, he returns to his trapped wife in the car.

He gets something out of the trunk. Returns to the front of the car with our spare tire. I’m thinking…does the man not know we’re in a pothole? Maybe the tire is flat, but unless he brought his scuba diving equipment, he’s not changing it right now. But no, he drops the tire into the water. What the hell? I wonder if this is like throwing a penny in the well to see how long before you hear it hit bottom. But nope, he’s thinking if the hole has a bottom, maybe he can use the tire to drive off of, which his little trip to the titty bar parking lot was about looking for a piece of wood. (Now, I’ll bet there’s plenty of wood inside the titty bar, but not the kind that comes from trees.) Unfortunately, the hole is too deep and our spare tire is pulled into the murky depths.

That’s when I see a pair of headlights. The car pulls up behind my car, and three rather large men, dressed in baggy clothes, get out of the car. Hubby comes to the window, and throws me his phone, but doesn’t say a word. Great! Did he want me to call 911?

Remember it’s almost midnight. Remember we’re not in what you would call the best neighborhood. Remember I’m stuck in a car half sunk in a pothole with the flashing lights, Girls, Girls, Girls blinking in my vision. One of the guys opens his trunk. Oh, also remember that I’m a writer, with a very active imagination, and I picture these guys pulling out a shotgun, robbing my husband, and pushing me and the car the rest of the way into the sinkhole that has already claimed our spare tire. Lucky for me, they don’t pull out a gun, it’s rope. There not going to shoot us, just tie us up.

I hear dialogue. The guys’ ability to speak English is limited—matched only by husband’s limited ability to understand limited English. I’m watching through the side mirror and see my husband fall to the ground. I’m hoping he’s doing something with the rope to the car and not on the ground being tied up.

Needless to say, they weren’t criminals, just three guys out to watch some adult entertainment who also happened to keep rope in their trunk. And who decided to be good Samaritans. They tie the rope to their car and pull us out.

Hubby offers to pay them for there efforts but they refuse. I imagine them going home and having their wives ask, “Have you been to a titty bar?” And them telling their wives, “No, We’ve been helping some poor stupid gringo get his car and wife out of a sinkhole.” Hey, I don’t begrudge them the excuse, they did save me.

Now, on the way home, after I repeat my question a couple of times. “What does…DON’T DO IT! mean to you?”, we start laughing. When I tell him the blog worthiness of the story, he cringes, but agrees to let me tell the story (like he could stop me) but with one condition: I have to include the part about the busty woman in the parking lot.

At first, I’m confused, then his reasoning becomes clear. It’s an embarrassment for a man to drive into a pothole, but . . . if the reason is due to him looking at a big breasted woman, then it’s okay.

Does this make sense to you? Okay…there it is. How I spent my Saturday night. What did you guys do? Do you have any hubby stories to share? And because I’m feeling grateful to be alive, I’m giving away a prize today. A copy of one of my books, or if you those, a copy of one of my friend’s books, and a Christie Craig pen and notebook. So make sure you post a comment. Oh, FYI, we were able to retrieve the spare tire.