Another Reason Why I Love My Wife

Fehmeen and I took Emma out to eat last night at Black Angus in Sunnyvale for the Bug’s seven month birthday celebration. Even though it was her seven-twelfths birthday dinner, I ate prime rib, Fehmeen had shrimp, and Emma drank her usual Earth’s Best organic formula. We never fail to be impressed by our baby’s behavior and demeanor in public; no crying, no fussing, no screaming. She just plays with her toys and smiles at all the people that stop and say hello to her.

At the conclusion of dinner, I exited the booth and hopped onto my motorized wheelchair. Fehmeen gathered up the Bug and together we headed for the front door. The lobby of the restaurant, which was practically deserted when we arrived at 5:30 pm, was now standing room only. We carefully navigated through the hungry masses of humanity that had gathered in the waiting area of the restaurant and we stepped/rolled/were carried across the threshold, ready to brave the elements of the season’s first massive rainstorm in an effort to make it to the covered shelter of the inside of our car.

Because it was pouring down rain, Fehmeen concocted the plan that I was to wait in relative dryness under the building’s awning while she carried the birthday girl in her covered car seat to our Honda that was awaiting our imminent arrival in one of the parking lot’s many blue handicapped spots. I was instructed to sit tight until she had snugged the Bug in the rug (meaning put Emma in the car) and then roll my way to her so she could load me and my collapsible set of wheels into the CRV.

Everything about the plan was going according to Hoyle except for one tiny little detail: some jerk/loser/piece of dog doo parked right next to us on the wheelchair ramp. Do you know the one I’m talking about, the cross-hatched space that’s not a space with the ramp-like feature for people that are in wheelchairs to use? Oh yeah, that one. Through the drenching rain, Fehmeen and I looked at each other incredulously as we attempted to figure out our next move.

With the conviction of a commanding officer in the military, Sergeant Khan screamed at me though the howling wind to roll myself towards her. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, she instructed me to park my chair behind our car, stand up, and walk with her down the slippery and narrow corridor between the two cars to the passenger door of our Honda and ultimately to my dry salvation. Once she was satisfied that I had safely reached my destination, Fehmeen beat a hasty retreat to the rear of the vehicle and my now sopping wet wheelchair.

Left to my own devices to open and enter the passenger door by myself, I did what any annoyed, wet, and pissed off dude would do when faced with a too close, illegally parked car: I attempted to inflict maximum damage to the offending vehicle. I “accidentally” pushed the side view mirror as far backwards as it would go and I “accidentally” slammed my car door into theirs about four or five times.

By the time Fehmeen and I were reunited in the front seats, we were soaked to the bone, frustrated, and furious. After several profanity laced exchanges extolling the lack of virtue of our discourteous parking neighbor, I asked my wife if she still had Emma’s dirty diaper from earlier that evening when she went out to the car to change her. Surprisingly, she said yes. (It was a surprise because Fehmeen usually disposes of poopy diapers immediately).

Her quick response to my query was a terse, “Why?”

I said, “I want to leave them a little present, that’s why.”

Begrudgingly, she reached behind her seat and tossed the foul-smelling little white package on my lap. I rolled down the window and considered throwing it but quickly realized that I probably couldn’t hit water from a boat. I shot her my most pathetic puppy-dog eyes and asked her, “Can you throw it for me, babe?”

“No”, she said, “I’m tired and wet and I just want to go home.” I agreed with her and began to roll up the window when she grabbed the diaper off my lap and threw it at the windshield of the car. Unfortunately, it bounced off the side of the car and hit the pavement with a wet thud. We commiserated our rotten luck and Fehmeen started to back up the CRV.

What occurred next surprised even me. Never in a million years would I have guessed that this would have happened. If you were to stick a label on Fehmeen and me as people, I would be a rule breaker and my wife would be a rule follower. She feels physically ill when confronted with an opportunity to even bend the rules so you know what she did next was either a product of my bad influence on her or she loves me more than I could ever imagine.

Halfway through backing up, Fehmeen put the car in park and exclaimed, “Forget this!”, and leaped out of the vehicle into the torrential rain. She raced over to where the soiled diaper lay inert on the ground and stealthily picked it up and deposited it on the base of the windshield. She then ran back to the car and continued exiting the space.

It was at this time that I spied a rain slicker covered figure emerging from the restaurant with a to go bag. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this person was headed to the car that had recently incurred the wrath of a handicapped parker scorned. I filled in Fehmeen as to the status of our current predicament and she hastily finished reversing and quickly made a right turn onto El Camino and we stole away into the night.

Once we were free and clear of the immediate danger, we high-fived each other and laughed nearly the entire ride home. I told her how much I loved her for everything she does for me all the time and I also informed her that the Bug was an accomplice to the “crime” because it was her dirty diaper. She then (correctly) surmised that this incident was my next blog topic. She begged me not to do it and when I said that it would be good for her bad-girl image, I thought I detected a hint of a smile on her face in the darkness.

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