The Sober Husband is a man with a keen, albeit unique, sense of efficiency. When he microwaves, he uses only one digit, say, heating food for 3:33 or :44, to save the time and effort of moving his index finger amongst the various numbers. Once he shocked a dental hygienist by firmly stating that he had no intention of taking up daily flossing, as instead he could just have his teeth cleaned an extra time a year and avoid wasting all that time and effort on daily flossing.
Nowhere is this passion for efficiency more noticeable than in his gasoline habits. He feels strongly that only a fool would waste time by unnecessary trips to the gas station. Any sensible person will wait until they can barely coast up to the pump on those last fumes of gas. Imagine the time savings over a lifetime!! Indeed, he once laughed, petting me on the head as one would pat an earnest puppy, as he looked at "all the funny little charges for gas" on my credit card statement. However, I would contend that the time I waste at gas stations is less than the time he spends trudging to a gas station, can in hand, when he has run out of gas.
And, of course, this calculus of saving time should take into account ALL THE YEARS THAT WILL BE LOST WHEN HIS HOMICIDAL WIFE SNAPS AFTER HER CAR WAS LEFT GASLESS ONE TOO MANY TIMES. We've had a number of heated little spats over this, when he parked my car and I was unable to start it again. The Sober Husband is not fazed by being out of gas (having grown accustomed to it over the years). He has a technique of coasting down the hill upon which we live, coasting almost all the way to a gas station. However, this closest gas station lies just beyond the intersection of Market, Castro and 18th Streets, the very epicenter of all gayness, and as befitting its eminence, this intersection is always clogged with traffic and pedestrians, including strollers who are far more interested in checking one another out than monitoring such tedious things as traffic lights, crossswalk perimeters, and the progress of gasless cars coasting desperately towards the gas station. (Incidentally this very same gas station is also noted for its exorbitant prices, charging usually over 30 cents more a gallon than my usual station).
Now, the Drunken Housewife is not exactly a demure, softspoken sort of spouse, and one would think any sensible husband would wish to avoid the sort of outspoken, candid exchange of views which inevitably follows her discovery of a gasless car. That has not proven to be the case, however. Evidently the time saved by avoiding tedious visits to the gas station is so valuable that it outweighs the loss of time spent being harangued by a rabid car-owner.
ohhh, the intersection with the very scary public restroom.
I sometimes wonder how much time I'd save if I'd just push 60 on the microwave instead of 1:00 when I wanted a minute, but, I can never remember to do it.
I am the Sober Husband, and I would like to say that while I do appreciate efficiency, I am not so irrational that I can't see my wife's point: it's true that the time squandered dealing with an unhappy wife far exceeds the time gained by avoided trips to the gas station.
But there is another layer to my thinking. Just speaking for myself, I see some benefit in suffering a breakdown once in a while. My car fails so frequently that I have become good at it. I have learned to diagnose and fix a wide variety of car problems. I always have tools and flashlights around. I know towing companies up and down the San Francisco peninsula. When a car fails, I am not afraid. I am ready.
there's something fishy in this logic. eg., getting gas doesn't really equal dealing with a car "Breakdown".
for the record tho, for some reason i hate going to the gas station too. maybe it's something to do with everyone here in LA pulling up in their porsches and mercedes next to me and my old jeep.
This is very exciting! I did not know that sober husband himself actually posted. Hi sober husband! I like the idea of using just one digit for the microwave. But, I just had to set it for 12:00 minutes. Would he have done 11:11? Seems like too much of a shortfall.
I think you should buy the Sober Husband a lovely, but practical gift for his next birthday: a gas can! That way, he can walk down to the gas station and pick up some gas for you when it runs out!
I can only imagine the ire the running-out-of-gas thing generates in the busy, clogged streets of San Francisco!
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