I fixed the car.

chirp chirp chirp 

I hired a personal trainer.  Wait, let me rephrase that.  My husband who would do ANYTHING if I'd just fall in love with exercise hired a personal trainer for me.  He does this about every 7 years.  I suspect there's some biblical mandate to do this, you know considering the whole 7 is the perfect number because its the combination of 3 for the Holy Trinity and 4 for the Earth.  Or maybe he's into numbers.  I don't know.  This is also followed by me insisting on various pieces of equipment because I disdain exercising in a public setting.   I always look like I've been held under water too long.  Or am awakening from a coma.  I've actually had people ask when I've been coerced into attending a class if I was okay.  It's not exactly a confidence builder.   I may just pass out and make everyone happy.    So to add to my list of equipment Bill added a heart monitor watch thingy.  He thinks he's clever for getting me a pink one.   It looks suspiciously like one of those bands they put on you if you're under house arrest.  I think it feeds him real time information as to whether or not I actually went to the gym.  But it is pink, so.

After he showed me how to attach the band around my upper body that reads information to the pink house arrest bracelet and set the numbers I went to the gym.  I also have wireless earphones so I can watch Netflix movies on my phone while watching the pink house arrest bracelet do it's thing.  I'm pretty techno, but not coordinated.  Which comes into play every time I get on the treadmill.  It's always a toss up as to who will win, the next episode of "Arrested Development" or the bracelet from hell.   Sometimes they sync, sometimes it looks like I'm growling obscenities at the treadmill or Matt Lauer if I can't figure out how to switch the TV monitor above the treadmill.   It's safe to say I do both on a regular basis.

Friday I left the gym all thrilled with myself for not falling off the treadmill and managing to sync everything correctly.  I got into my white-mommy-mini-van and cranked it when I noticed what sounded like a bird or rodent sound coming from under the dash.  At first I thought a baby bird was under the hood or maybe even in the mirror.  I turned off the air and the radio and all my techno crap and proceeded to try to locate the bird.   Putting my ear to the dash, the door, the radio console, getting out, walking around the car, looking behind the mirror, fender, under the car.  Nothing.  and I couldn't hear it anymore.  Get back in the car and crank it, chirping starts.  It's very faint but now I'm thinking some electrical switch or fuse is about to go kerplunk.  My sliding door's electric lock died a couple of weeks ago but I can hear it trying to engage so maybe it's something like that.  Well, I'll just tell Bill when I get home.....IF I CAN GET HOME.  My brain always goes to the worst possible scenario when it's car related.   I pull in turn off the car, still chirping.

chirp chirp chirp

Now before I tell Bill and look like an idiot because as all wives know children, pets and automobiles NEVER repeat the trick you've asked them to do I recheck all possibilities.  STILL CHIRPING.

Trying to find my keys to get back into the house I'm rummaging around and fussing about the car.  As I reach into my purse the pink house arrest bracelet passes by my ear.  Chirping.  Well, that was 30 minutes wasted on finding a bird.  I walk in and tell Bill my whole story.

Me:  ......and so it was my bracelet! Isn't that funny?
Bill:   so there's nothing wrong with the car?
Me:  Nope.
Bill:  ok.
Me:  Isn't that funny?
Bill.  Are you asking me if I think it's funny that you didn't notice the watch you've been wearing is making a chirping noise?  Why would I think that's funny? I worry about you.
Me:  It's funny , trust me.

A lot of my stories end like this.