A few days of sunshine and my face is so speckled I don’t recognize myself in the mirror; however, the effects of the sun reach deep, changing more than my skin’s surface.  I suddenly find myself doing silly things like jumping rope and leaving unsigned notes on the front seat of a certain man’s Jeep.

With the pockets of my sweatshirt stuffed with tissues, an asthma inhaler, and cell phone, I searched the kitchen for Oriana’s leash.  My eyes lighted on the silver links just as an image of FringeMan filtered through my mind.  He was working on a house in our town and I knew the road.  Without much thought I grabbed a pen and snatched a piece of loose-leaf paper my daughter uses to practice her spelling words.  I then scribbled a little message, folded up the paper, and added it to the growing pile of junk in my pocket.  I grabbed the dog, took a deep breath, and headed out for a walk.

That sounds simple, but in reality it’s kinda like one of those cartoons where you see the leashed dog running wildly down the road with a harried woman floating in the air a few feet behind, terrified to release the leash.  I am that woman.

As soon as I rounded the corner onto the street where FringeMan was working, I noticed his vehicle.  I couldn’t miss it, because it’s plastered with a few of those signs that nearly landed him in jail.  Ironically, the signs still hang in various locations around our town.  The local officers haven’t complained, so as long as we are all happy, they add beauty to our local landscape.  Really, they do.

Stealthily I opened the driver’s side front door and the dog jumped in and wouldn’t come out.  This is partly because she’s now worn out from our psychotic run, but mostly because I walked into the road and she’s terrified of moving traffic ever since her near death experience on the side of a van.

Finally I coax her out, unfold the note, and lay it out on the seat. Slamming the creaking door, we took off at a run.  I’m sure the Mrs. Cravitz’s of the neighborhood were certain I just stole toll change from the cupholder, but as long FringeMan didn’t see us, we were good.

My note said something like…

I am looking for an electrician to put an outlet in my living room,

hang a chandelier  in my dining room,

and electrify my bed.

Now, we’ve been married for twelve years and I’ve left him thousands of notes.  They usually have words like “pick up milk”, “please stop for bread on your way home,” and “don’t forget the kitchen pipe burst and flooded the first floor.”  But still, he should recognize the handwriting.  Shouldn’t he?

Apparently not.  He skimmed the first two lines of the note, saw ‘outlets’ and ‘chandelier’, immediately stopped reading and searched for a phone number.  When he couldn’t locate a number, he stopped to reread and began having heart palpitations.

Self-consciously he looked over his shoulder, up and down the street, and panicked.  He said he felt like Joseph working in Potipher’s house and thought, “I’d better tell Tricia before she kills me.”

So he hopped in the car and swung by the house.  Only I wasn’t there and the dog was missing too.  Realization dawned and my phone began to ring.  He’s so easy to fool!

My recommendation for you this week…

Leave your husband an unsigned note and make sure he doesn’t recognize your handwriting.  He’ll get a kick out of it and you may get some fringe benefits too.

Thank me later.

If you’d like to read about my dog’s brush with death, click HERE.

If you’d like to read about FringeMan’s brush with the law, click HERE.