Wives, Give Your Husband a Heads-Up

Doing "The Suburban Shuffle" (Messed-Up But Managing #14)

Two days ago, I was sitting in the living room, hammering away on the keyboard like the knock-off, cheap, off-brand, wanna-be version of Hemingway that I am, when a black sedan pulled into my driveway. It was not a “turnaround” pull-in either. Nope. This was a full-on I’m-committed-to-being-here pull-in. This was an all-four-tires-across-the-property-line pull-in. Nobody’s ever done that here. Ever. So, I looked up thinking: I guess this is how it all ends. Ok, not really, but still.

Now, mind you, I’ve got a weird driveway, a sloped on-the-mountainside kinda driveway. It’s at an angle that’s forgiving if you’re in a Jeep or a truck, but if you’re in a Corolla, different story. If that’s you and you’re trying to pull in, you better have taken physics in college and made peace with God. As usual, my younger dog lost her mind barking at the unknown vehicle. The older, smaller dog slept right through it because her philosophy on life at this age is: I hear nothing, I see nothing, I pee wherever I want.

So, not wanting to be awkward, even though it’s my house and driveway, I slink over over to the window. And there I am standing by the window watching this unfold like I’m in a suburban crime documentary and those never end well. What do I see? A guy gets out, walks to the back of his car, pops the trunk. It was then that I started narrating to myself in my best Dateline voice: “He said it was just a delivery, but the driveway told another story.”

I slid on some shoes and went out the side door. I was like, “If I’m getting up, there better be a good reason!” A moment later, we make eye contact through his windshield and, honestly, it was kinda weird. I hit him with a classic dad move: “Can I help you?” As a dad, that’s really juts a polite way of asking, “Why are you here and am I gonna need to use force? ‘Cause if so, I’m probably gonna need to stretch first.”

He just says, “Delivery,” comes toward me, and hands me bags. No explanation, no uniform, no visible company logo, just Curtis. Curtis with the confidence of a man who’s delivered thousands of perishable items to complete strangers before. Just a normal day for ol’ Curtis. I tell Mr. Curtis, “Umm, I didn’t order anything,” and he hits me with, “Ah, wives order. Husbands are clueless.” Which was both offensive and 100% correct. It all made sense in that moment.

But let’s be real: we all know this how people die in horror movies. Not by chainsaws, but by some dad’s overconfidence to go outside and confront a stranger with grocery bags. I know, I know, I know, it’s really not that different from the mailman or FedEx guy. But it kinda is. At least they show up in vans with branding, not in Camrys that look like a Craigslist deal about to go sideways.

And I have to say: this is way more personal. That’s another part that makes it weird. I don’t need to make eye contact with the man handing me bananas and toilet paper. I don’t need a stranger knowing I need lactose-free ice cream and, even though I’m 44, I still haven’t given up on Spaghettios. None of his business!

But now, random Curtis knows. And Curtis has me doing a little jig and dance we could call “The Suburban Shuffle”: take a bag, walk it in, come back out for more. At one point, he handed me a paper bag, one half the size of the regular, old-school paper bags, with three cartons of milk weighing the equivalent of three newborn children. Then, mid-transfer, the bag rips and drops. Thank God they weren’t newborns! Three milks to the pavement. All survived! The bulk of the damage was simply emotional.

Curtis panics. I just shrug and say, “That happens sometimes.” Not wanting Curtis, this complete stranger to feel bad, I shoulder the blame: “It was my fault.” It wasn’t, but it seemed to alleviate some of the awkwardness. I say, “Shoulda double-bagged these bad boys.” He laughed. It wasn’t really a joke but, since I’m a comedian, I’ll take what I can get.

When I started this story, I had no idea where it would go. Sometimes, that’s just how writing goes. But something just came to mind so, let me just give you the moral of the story: wives, if you’re gonna send groceries to your house, maybe give your husband a heads-up. Otherwise he’s gonna think Curtis is there to rob you or sell solar panels or is some strange boy picking your daughter up. You don’t want your husbands to have PTSD every time a sedan slows down near the house or phone a call into 911 and report “a suspicious man holding a head of romaine.”

PS: Curtis, if you’re reading this, thank you for not being a serial killer. And, oh, you gave us 4 bottles of different herbs and spices we didn’t order. That’s fine, but someone else is probably pissed, so be safe out there!