Why We Don't Talk: Smug Married Perspective

For the past two years I've referred to Blair's car as "The Deathtrap." It was a Lexus in a former life, but it's now a molting green blob that sheds car parts according to the season. Blair and I both pride ourselves on driving our cars into the ground, but even I'm willing to call it quits on this one.

Blair insists it's safe and that the problems are only cosmetic. Whatever. I just don't feel safe riding in a car that takes 5 minutes for the dash lights to warm up and come on, the wood trim paneling comes unglued, the mirrors no longer work (rotate), and it looks like a Jack-the-Ripper wanna-be had a go at the seats with his knife kit. 

To my horror, Blair actually drives co-workers around in this monstrosity when they go to lunch. I can only assume that since he's their boss, they're afraid of losing their jobs if they admit to their fear and say no. 

This morning, over breakfast, Blair mentioned he was taking the Lexus into the shop. "Something's wrong with the steering," he said. 

My eyes flew open in alarm but he waved away my concern. "No, not that. It works fine. It's just making kind of this...groaning...noise."

I snorted then burst out laughing.

"What?" he asked.

"Honey, your car is groaning when you drive it. It's like it's actually begging you for a mercy killing." 

Blair threw me an injured look. "You know how you complain that we don't talk more? This is why we don't. Because you're mean."

"Ohhhh....owwwww...uuuhhh...," I said. "Hey---guess what I am. Grrrrooooaaaann..."

Blair propped both fists on the table and made robot noises as he popped first one middle finger up at me and then the other. "Zzsch-zzsch-zzsch-zzsch-zzsch-zzsch!" he said, machine gun firing them at me. 

"Really?" I asked.

He grinned, still flipping me off with both hands. "Man, seventh grade was great." 

So that was our morning. Pretty typical, actually. How was yours?