I've been known to say that not only do X and I fulfill the Ethnic Quotient in our neighborhood, we're taking care of the Whiskey Tango element as well. And what transpired the other night only served to prove my point. When I came home from Stitch n' Bitch on Sunday afternoon and pulled into the driveway, Arun climbed into my lap while I was sitting in the driver's seat and we let him play with the steering wheel etc. Unbeknownst to us, he turned on the headlights. As you can imagine, our battery mounted a rising protest and died - which X discovered later that evening as he was headed out to the gym. He took my car to the gym and picked up some jumper cables on his way back. So, there we are in our driveway, figuring out how to jump the car. Sure, I grew up in Kansas and I've seen lots of guys jump cars, but usually it was in a pasture, near a pond and much beer was involved. I am pretty clueless when it comes to automatic transmissions (I've jumped many a stick shift car by popping the clutch, though). I sat and watched my husband, a metallurgical engineering major (IIT - Madras no less) attempt to ground the cable to a PLASTIC doohickey despite my assurances that was indeed a PLASTIC doohickey. Fortunately, my frantic histrionics convinced him that plastic is not really useful for grounding an electrical current. And where was Arun during all this? In the front yard "sweeping" the lawn with a broom that is easily twice his height. In his pajamas. In the dark. Cuz we're classy like that. As much as I claim to enjoy a fine champagne, foie gras and fancy handbags, the reality is grim. I really just prefer to get drunk while eating mashed goose liver as I am slinging a pretty, overpriced sack of leather.