Pretty Gets You Places

Our motorhome's bedroom window stays open a little or a lot. There's no closing it.

It's been that way for nearly nine months now. And neither Allen nor his best RV buddie Louie can figure out how to fix it.

They spent a lot of time looking at it. I know this, because I saw them. Both standing there. Looking at it. Trying to figure out how to fix it. They leaned back on their heels, crossed their arms over their chests and shook their heads. I've since figured out this means "What a shame. It can't be done without a whole lot of trouble. And we don't have the right tools."

So now, nine months later, it's urgent we get it fixed. We're in Texas, in the spring. The mosquitoes and flies are coming.

So we head to the nearest Camping World and I ask for help. Well, I try to.

"We have a 2007 Navin J and we need the rear window repaired," I say to the woman behind the counter.
"No we don't," Allen corrects me, and he's smiling. "I told you, it's just the round crank."

"I know honey," I smile back, to placate him. Then say to the woman behind the desk, "The window crank ..."

Again, Allen interrupts. I giggle. "It's not the crank, it's the whole window that has to come out. I know this. I worked on it for hours." He's still grinning.

"OK, honey," I smile, daggers this time. And turn back to the sales desk where now two women have stopped to help me.

"We need ..." then argh! It's him again. Talking. I laugh! They're smiling.  I shake my head.

Allen stomps on every comment I make (but sweetly, smiling and grinning) or tries to finish my sentences, all the while talking to me, not the people behind the counter.

Before our rift gets serious, Mister To The Rescue moseys out from behind the wall to save the day: "Hey, is the rig here in the lot?"

"Yes," Allen and I say, in unison. Of course.

"Let's go take a look."

Out he and Allen go and I stay back at the desk, with the two women. "I need estrogen!" I say, melodramatically.
With the guys out of earshot, one woman says, almost conspiratorially, "Is he always like that?"

"Well, sort of, I guess, but not usually this bad." I come to his defense, a little. I have to. I'm his wife.

And her reply? Egads, that's awful? Shame on him? How could he? Doesn't he know to wait his turn? Doesn't he know that it's rude to interrupt?

Nope. She says, with twinkling eyes, "Well, I'd a slapped him in the face if he JUST WASN'T SO CUTE."