Changing tires puts a lot of pressure on a marriage

 It was a Sunday afternoon. Need I say more? But for SOME reason, Brad felt compelled to be productive and was reluctant to leave me behind. "We need to change the tire on the cart," he announced. First I glanced around for the mysterious person who completed the equation that validated his use of the word "we." Then I foolishly said, "We have a cart?" He motioned to the bane of my existence...the trailer. No good has come out of that trailer yet. "Let me explain something to you," I remarked during a commercial intermission of an episode of The Office that I had previously viewed and enjoyed at least seventeen times, "Don't try to fool me with your intentional mis-use of the word cart.  A cart is a light contraption often attached to something delightful...like a pony. The trailer is heavy and every time we use it, I walk away, battered, bruised, and resentful." 

"We'll move it with the 4-wheeler," Brad said encouragingly as I stomped resentfully out of the house. The least he could have done was let me watch the last twenty-two minutes of The Office.  We rounded the corner. "Oh," my husband said," your truck is in the way. We'll just have to move it ourselves." No! "I'll just dash back in the house for the keys," I exclaimed. "No," he shook his head, "in the time it'll take you to grab the keys, we would have already moved the trailer into position." Commence Yelling Session #1 as I apparently didn't garner enough momentum to drive the heavy trailer up and over a barrier of roots that could have successfully held back a stampeding herd of Texas longhorn cattle.  This also marks the place where Bruise #1 began to develop. 

Now situated on flat ground, Brad began the process of removing the tire. I am never mature in an arena where words and phrases such as screw, nuts, line up the hole, and we need some lube are peppered with casual frequency into the conversation. The bolts were refusing to budge and hope, for me, seemed imminent. "Maybe if I had someone to help me," Brad scowled, resting from his wrestling match. I glanced around for that special someone. Oh. He meant me. What on earth did he want me to do? I had trouble opening a cereal box. "Stand in the box over the tire," he directed. Oh. Apparently I did have something to offer after all. Bruise #2 would make its appearance here as I straddled the loading gate to get in. Turns out that I didn't weigh enough to help. I tossed up a prayer of gratitude for THAT little revelation. "Maybe if you carefully step on the fender," Brad brainstormed, gallantly holding my hand so I wouldn't crush his precious trailer. Great. Worked like a charm.

"Could you go and grab the jack stands from the shed?" Brad asked. A stream of consciousness flooded though my mind as I attempted to picture the device he wanted: Jack and Jill, Jack-Be-Nimble, Jumping Jacks, hand stands, lemonade stand, this sucks. Brad beat me to the shed and handed me one jack stand while he carried the other one. Jack stands in place, Brad got busy removing the lug nuts while I giggled. "Can you grab the better of the two replacement tires from the garage," he asked. Will I NEVER be done with this project? I finally located the two tires (Thanks to Brad's shouted directions) and surveyed them with a discriminating eye. Hmmm...which one was the better of the two? To be safe, I hauled both of them out to him. Great. Bruises #3 & #4 AND I got dirty. 

At this point, I invented some excuse to disappear into the house. By the time I returned, an air compressor had joined the party. Brad had left his glasses in the house. "Should I dash up to the house and get them for you?" I offered. "No, you can read the tires for me," he said. We (he) soon realized that the replacement tire size was slightly bigger. "What does that mean?" I asked (stupidly). "We'll have to change BOTH tires," my husband informed me. WHAT THE &%^$! "Look," he said calmly, "I'm hauling a ton of stuff in this thing and I don't want to risk blowing out a tire." I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to be so dramatic," I told him. "Amy...(I HATE when he calls me that!)...we buy two TONS of pellets EVERY fall." Oh. 

It was time to replace the lug nuts on the first tire. "Can you please lift it a bit so I can fit it into the hole," he spit out between clenched teeth. Fighting back my immature giggles, I gingerly lowered myself to the ground. "Hold it there...there...don't move..." I was almost hysterical by now. Cue Argument #6. "If you can't hold it still, I won't be able to get the nut in." It's hard to argue when someone says that to you. "I can't see in this position and my knees are grinding into the gravel," I grumbled. Brad brought out some knee pads. First tire on. Brad moved to the other side of the trailer. "Can you bring the other tire over?" Yeah. You guessed it. I couldn't tell the difference between the good tire and the bad tire. Cue fifteen minute lecture complete with power point presentation and puppet show. 

This time I had a better idea of what I was doing. When it came time to replace the lug nuts, I made sure that I was in a position to see. "That's great for you," Brad complained, "but I can't see with your head in front of mine." There is NO pleasing him! 

Whew! Done. Now there was just the half hour of putting everything away. I put stuff away first and then Brad followed me and put each tool where it was actually supposed to go. 

Whew! Done. Now there was just the finishing touch of putting the trailer back. "I could dash into the house and get the keys to the truck," I offered. Brad waved away my helpful suggestion. "Nah...by the time you came back, we'd have already moved it." Aimed in the right direction, we raced up the incline and immediately careened dangerously toward the house. "Watch it!" Brad warned. "You're steering!" I pointed out. Cue Argument #15. Fed up, I stormed into the house, battered, bruised, and resentful. And tired.