Jesus had his disciples, the president has his advisers and my husband has The Guys at Work.
For him, there are no wiser men, no sager-sages than these workplace whizzes. Aristotle? Ha! Socrates? Scoff. Michelangelo? Come on! We don't need them. Not when we have the astute counsel of Jim, Gary, Bob and Other Bob.
Need to know where to get cheap tires? The Guys at Work say to go to Mr. Tire. Wonder what movie to see this weekend? The Guys at Work have seen them all. Curious which RV to buy? No doubt TGAWs have the answer.
Yes, we are brushed by greatness to know these wonders of worldliness, these wizards of wisdom. They've offered my man advice on everything from child rearing to Christmas
gifts to beef steak.
The phrase ''The Guys at Work said...'' gets an automatic wifely eye roll from me. Not because I disagree with them. In fact, my answers usually match theirs. But the truth isn't the truth until we have the Guys' blessing.
Let's illustrate this scenario with a little dialogue, if you will:
Him: “What movie do you want to see this weekend?”
Me: “Well, I hear “Avatar” is good.”
Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still.
Fade in, two days later:
Him: “Say, I know - let's see “Avatar” Saturday. The Guys at Work say it's great!”
(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
If nothing else, at least my agreement with the TGAWs guidance proves that I’m right. I love being right. Don't you? I used to dream of being rich or famous, thin or gorgeous. But I’m old. I’ve given up on those dreams.
And occasionally - just sometimes - I know what I'm talking about. This is because I’ve spent years living single and dirt poor.
You too can become a rocket scientist. All you need is - nothing and no one. With good old-fashioned poverty, you’ll quickly learn the art of creative scrounging. You’ll also learn to do things yourself, because no one else is around to help. Years of lonely financial struggle have given me solid knowledge of 1040 tax forms, toilet plumbing and your basic Ford engine. Far be it from me to withhold all this valuable knowledge from my husband. That would be selfish. I have to share.
Case in point: a while back, we hopped in the Taurus to go out to eat. He turned the key.
Car: Click, click click.
Me: “Sounds like the starter.”
Him (cussing under his breath as we switched cars): “Humph. Maybe.”
Fade in, a few days later.
Me: “Hey, did you find out what’s wrong with the Taurus?”
Him: “The Guys at Work said it's the starter.”
(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
Me: “Huh. How about that.”
Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still (again).
And then my husband begrudgingly said Those Words. The Three Little Words every woman longs for:
''You were right.''