I had a Mustang once that I received a recall notice on. I put off taking it in and eventually forgot about the issue . . . until about a year after I sold it. I still have lingering guilt and hope the ignition never caught on fire as it was being driven down the freeway.
Today's recall notice was about our refrigerator. I'm a skimmer when it comes to official legalese. I wish those things came with Cliff Notes—just give me the bottom line in two concise sentences so I can get on with it.
And I was in a hurry. A dangerous combination when it comes to matters of import.
I checked the serial numbers in the letter against the ones on the metal plate inside my refrigerator. No match. I was about to toss the letter, but decided that TDH should probably have a looksee just in case I'd bobbled it.
He came in when I was in the midst of a whirlwind—trying to get dinner on the table and get out the door for a meeting and the clock was ticking against me.
First, I pointed out my lovely tortellini soup and the crostini I was toasting in the oven (don't hate me, it was only the second time I've attempted to broil bread) to go with the roasted garlic (another second).
To which TDH turned with an excited smile and said, "Where's the cheese?" referring to an appetizer at our favorite Italian restaurant.
My smile grew thin as I again pointed out the lovely crostini and roasted garlic to go with the soup.
He waited patiently.
Why is it that when they ask a simple question, we feel as if we're under attack and our voices take on a helicopter whine? "I've been gone all day, I just threw what I had together. There is no cheese!" I explained with a tight smile.
His eyebrows rose slightly, but he wisely didn't say a word.
I motioned toward the letter on the counter and told him I wanted him to read the recall notice for our fridge. He picked it up and asked what it was for. I hit my rewind button and told him it was a recall notice for the fridge and I wanted him to look it over.
He wanted more details. I gave the tortellini a vigorous stir and told him in a rising voice that all the details were in the letter (did I mention I was in a hurry?).
More raised eyebrows, but he finally bent his head over the letter.
He was about two-thirds through the letter when those handsome eyebrows drew together in a frown and he quoted, "and in specific circumstances, may result in a vehicular fire."
He gave me the oddest look and said in a voice strangled with laughter, "This is for the refrigerator in our trailer."
Good thing I listened to those killer instincts and didn't recycle the letter. And good thing I have such a forgiving husband who only gave me a mild ribbing for my attitude.