For those new to my blog, I work with a group of men I lovingly refer to as “The Mechanics.” They are the equivalent of a giant pack of rabid grandmas when it comes to my love life. Every Monday, I face their inquisition: what did you do this weekend, did you get lucky, did you get taco’d (their word for drunk)? Then, we wash, rinse, and repeat on Fridays: what are you doing this weekend, ya gonna get lucky, are you going to get taco’d? Quite often these statements are followed by, “You know what you need to do (insert crazy guy advice here).” God forbid I ever show up on a Monday morning with a mark on my neck brought on by an errant scratch. They care about me.
The Mechanics often take time out of their day from torquing screws to plan my wedding reception. Three years ago (March 11, 2009), while we were in the throws of planning the beer list, I mentioned champagne.
Bruce the Mechanic: I don’t like champagne.
Me: Bruce. BY GOD IF I GET MARRIED YOU WILL DRINK CHAMPAGNE.
Bruce the Mechanic: I tell ya what. I’ll make a bet with you. If you get married, I’ll drink champagne. If you don’t get married, you owe me $1. You’ve got two years.
Me: You’re on.
To make the bet official, we did what The Mechanics do with all of their important events. We wrote the bet on the wall.
The two years quickly passed and I didn’t get married. In fact, my love life basically took on the characteristics of a deer trapped in the headlights of an 18 wheeler. Defeat was going to run me over. I had no doubt. I gallantly prepared to surrender my $1. To my surprise, Bruce the Mechanic approached me a few days before the fateful date arrived.
Bruce the Mechanic: I’ve been thinking. Let’s go double or nothing. I will give you one more year.
Me: You’re going to win.
Bruce the Mechanic: Ya have to have a little faith KB.
We shook hands and edited the writing on the wall.
The second fateful date arrived. Once again Bruce the Mechanic approached me days before the due date.
Bruce the Mechanic: This bet has cursed you. I say we end it. We will have a curse-releasing ceremony.
Me: I agree. We’ll have cake and celebrate. I will gladly pay you $2.
The sad thing is The Mechanics didn’t want me to lose the bet and were desperate enough to suggest I fake a wedding. I don’t do well at losing and the thought did cross my mind. In the end, however………………..
We ate cake. We laughed. We celebrated.
Bruce the Mechanic hates the paparazzi, but he has big plans for his $2.
With a belly full of ceremonial cake, I reflected on the past three years.
Me: I feel like my love life has received a douche.
Cliff the Mechanic: KB please leave that comment at home on your next date.
She who sees the writing on the wall would be wise to invest in a giant eraser.
AND, before I go……… from my Great Grandmother’s journal……… ADVICE ……….for marriage………and worms…….. hmm….. :-)