Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul by Jack Canfield

Author:Jack Canfield
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 9780757302657
Publisher: HCI
Published: 2005-04-02T07:00:00+00:00

The Honeymoon Is Over

If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it.

Jonathan Winters

In the spring of 1963, I brought my new bride of three weeks home to meet my parents. We had to stretch the fifty dollars we had to get home to Redwood City, 475 miles away, where money in my bank account was waiting.

We had to select from two motels on either side of the highway. One wanted fifteen dollars for the night, while the other wanted four dollars. I opted for the bargain, but my wife wanted to stay where the amenities were more conducive to “freshening up” and looking her best when she was introduced to my family.

I pointed out the practical side of the situation— notably, the lack of funds—so she reluctantly agreed on the bargain.

I’d just set our bags down when my wife noticed the busy scurrying of a multitude of tiny black “critters” cavorting on the shag throw rug next to the bed!

Wanting to make the best of a sticky situation, I took the rugs outside and gave them a good shake, then placed them back on the floor. “Oh, no!” she said. “I don’t want those filthy things in here!”

“Okay, honey,” I replied and put them outside by the door. I wasn’t about to dispute the matter further because she was clearly agitated.

After a few kisses and an apology from me, she snuggled up and said, “Oh, that’s okay. I know we have to save money, and it’s really not so bad.”

Young love is great, isn’t it? That was about to change— drastically.

“Why don’t you go get some takeout while I shower and wash my hair?”

Good idea, I thought. It would give her some time to cool down a bit, for she was still a tad upset.

I returned from the greasy spoon with two hamburgers and two helpings of fries in a grease-stained paper sack to be greeted by pounding and crying coming from the bathroom.

“The water just stopped; I’ve got my hair and eyes full of shampoo; there’s no towels in here and I can’t open the door because somehow it’s locked. Just get me out of here. Please!” she said.

I turned the knob but it wouldn’t budge. I shook it, rattled the door and did everything I could to get it to open—all to no avail. Giving one last mighty turn, I felt a grinding from within, and the knob came off in my hand as its mate dropped to the floor on the other side.

We replaced the knobs on the door, but no amount of fiddling would get the stubborn thing to open.

“Sorry, honey, I’ll have to get the manager.”

“But I don’t have any clothes on. . . .”

“Just stay calm, dear.”

The manager, a grizzled old geezer, wearing a pair of stained overalls, dusty brown high-top boots, and a T-shirt that, even in its better days, should have been used as a dust rag, was very helpful and understanding.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’!” he exclaimed as he turned the knob to no avail.

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