Disaster Monday

I have a wonderful hubby. A lovely, caring, rather big man who has a heart to match.

But he can’t turn on the TV without help.

In fact, just about anything with electricity baffles him. I honestly don’t know how he manages to drive to work.

You think I kid? Only a week ago, I showed him how to work the TV remote.

Again.

Last Monday, I was at work when I got his panicked phone message.

“Taylor, there’s a problem with the sub pump. We have a flood!” And nothing else. No further details, notes or instructions.

Calling him is futile. He would never remember to keep the cell with him or even know how to answer it if it rang. I was impressed he had managed to use the phone and leave a message.

Fearing a flood of Biblical proportions, I spoke to my boss, pleaded for mercy and ran home.

Where I found my hubby staring at the sub pump surrounded by our dogs. All wore identical puzzled expressions on their faces.

While the dogs tried to demonstrate their boundless love by ruining my work clothes, I inquired about the flood.

He pointed to the hole. “It’s coming.”

I peered over the edge to the perfectly working sub pump, with its back up and prayed to whatever deities exist for patience.

“You’re not going to need the mop.”

He chuckled with a knowing look. “You’re so wrong.”

Just then, River decided he had waited long enough and lifted his leg.

My hubby was right, he did need that mop after all.

 

 

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