Hubby and I were doing spring cleaning around our place last week and as expected, marital bickering was a part of that deal. Even so, nothing prepared me for the following events.
I was weeding the garden and hubby decided to push past me on the path, instead of going the long way around me and keeping it nice and simple. (like a normal person). Sounds all very innocent, right?
At the time he was holding a whipper snipper (weed eater to the Americans), and had unscrewed the cap on it. (For a still-undisclosed reason, I might add.)
As a result, when he squeezed by me, he had to perform a contortionists act and in doing so, upended the contents of the whipper snipper tank all over my back.
Have you ever been doused in any kind of fuel? If you haven’t, and you have it on your list-of-things-to-do-before-you-die, I suggest you take it off. Now. (I can assure you, it’s nowhere near as cool or amusing as you may have imagined.)
For a split-second after it hit my back, I thought it was water and gave him the death stare while I screeched in protest. A nano-second later, when the stench hit my nose and I realized what it was, the death stare darkened and became even more evil, as I responded to my instant reflex – and stood up.
Big mistake. Huge.
Standing up caused the fuel to run further down my back to my, er… rear. An important point to note here, is that fuel running down your rear, burns. A lot.
I still hadn’t yet said a word to him as I bolted for the shower, with him following me calling out “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!” (Being married to me for almost 10 years, he was well-aware that no sound from my mouth, coupled with the death stare = whole world of trouble for him.)
After I showered, I put the clothes in the washer and washed them three times. They still stink of fuel and will have to be thrown out; an outcome I am less than pleased about.
However, a slightly more disturbing issue is the fact that my husband doused me with fuel and cannot provide a plausible explanation as to how. He explained that he had the cap unscrewed, but couldn’t seem to elaborate as to why it would be undone on a tank full of fuel in the first place!
He maintains that since I did not view a lighter, pack of matches or a piece of flint on him, I cannot claim anything more sinister than the accident he is professing. Still, a girl can’t help but have her suspicions and while I do, I’m planning on milking it for as many ‘make-it-up-to-me-gifts’ as I can get.
After all, in the midst of some garden-variety spring clean and tame marital bickering, torching me does seem a little excessive.
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