There is not a lot of overlap between the television shows I like to watch and those that my husband likes. My tastes run more towards Real Housewives and Charlie’s Angels, his are more of Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey and The MacNeil Lehrer Report. To be honest, in the Venn diagram of our television relationship, the middle section would be mostly empty.
One notable tv show is the History Channel’s Pawn Stars. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the program, but the show is about three guys that own a pawn shop in Las Vegas and the different items that come into their shop. It totally appeals to the inner nerd in me because of all the super cool historical items like one of George Washington’s campaign button and a tiara made for Wiliam McKinley’s wife Ida. Plus they get a lot of Elvis stuff in their store and I like Elvis.
A couple of nights ago, my husband and I were watching an episode in which a guy wanted to sell his 1956 Buick station wagon. At first, I was all “Ew … a station wagon” but then I saw it and was all “Ooo … a turquoise station wagon!”.
“That ’56 Buick station wagon is pretty cool,” I commented to my beloved. “The guy wants $50,000 for it though. Ouch.”
My husband contemplated my statement for a moment before answering. “You know,” he said, “we could trade in both of our cars and buy one of those. We could be a one car family.”
“Well, that would work on most days, but there’s always that one day every week …”, I said bugging my eyes out to indicate the logistical nightmare that would be sharing a car on heavy activity afternoons, like when piano lessons, sports practice and trips to Sonic for half price happy hour slushies overlap with each other and having to pick up my husband from work.
He looked me directly in the eyes. I always know that when my husband is about to deliver what he considers to be the perfect solution to a problem, he looks me directly in the eyes. “Oh, I’d buy you a scooter for incidentals.”
What?! A scooter? For incidentals? What, exactly, are incidentals?
Apparently, all of my trips into town for groceries, errands, and child toting are “incidentals”.
“That might be the most condescending slash hilarious thing you’ve ever said to me,” I replied. “That being said, I’d love a scoot. I really would. And I would require a helmet. A disco ball helmet. Obviously.”
I would look so choice zipping about town riding on a scoot with a disco ball helmet or in that righteous turquoise station wagon. I think we may be onto something here.