by Patti
I had a conversation with M the other day that left me completely and totally frustrated. Yes, I realize that I am a wife, and that I was having a conversation with my husband, and that it is not uncommon for that equation right there: wife + husband + conversation to have the result of = frustration. But in this case, the frustration was borne out of sheer, well, the pure fact that my husband has no idea what he's talking about.
It all began when I received a phone call from the vet telling me that Gaucho's poop test came back positive for a very common parasite in puppies, and that the treatment was super simple and inexpensive. I of course immediately began to Google the diagnosis, and called M to tell him that our new "son" needed drugs, and that I would be home late as I was going to stop by the vet to pick up the medicine.
"He's not taking medicine," he told me, quite plainly.
"What do you mean? He's got parasites! He needs the medicine!"
"No he doesn't. He's a dog; he has to be tough. Besides, you are falling for the trick."
"The trick?"
"Yes, the doctor is tricking you into buying medicine. It's all just a business. Just leave him alone - he'll be fine. Nothing's gonna happen."
This is SO him, this whole "doubt authority" and "no pasa nada" attitude. I blame it on Argentina, the Land of "No Pasa Nada". Undercooked meat? No pasa nada. Strep throat? No pada nada. Your arm is dangling from its socket? No pasa nada.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
We stood still, craning our necks towards the silence, waiting.
Bzzzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Bzzz-Bzzzzz.
"THERE!" I pointed to the air frantically. "Do you hear it?"
M put S down and strode further into the room, S toddling behind him. I lunged for S, suddenly remembering that sound. "IT'S ELECTRICITY!" I screamed. S kicked her legs angrily, annoyed that I had roadblocked her in such an inconsiderate way.
"What? No, it's not." M looked around quickly, as if the electricity was hiding coyly behind the curtains, waiting to jump out with a "mega-watt" smile on its face, shouting, "GOTCHA!"
"YES, IT IS!" Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. "You HAVE to call the electrician!"
"Where am I going to find an electrician? It's Sunday. We're at the beach! Everyone is sleeping!" Ah, yes, the all-important siesta. The whole country had just eaten pasta and guzzled an industrial-sized bottle of wine. Of course they were sleeping. But I told him to wake them all up, and to his credit, to appease me, he called the landlord, who called an electrician.
One half-hour later, a sleepy-eyed man showed up, the makeshift box of tools he was carrying apparently enough to make him an electrician. He marched upstairs, tapping the wall as he went, trying to look official. We followed behind - M, M's mom and dad, and me, S in my arms. M and his dad, the fearless macho Argentinian men that they are, followed him all the way into the room, while M's mom and I stayed on the fringes, preferring to live. The man walked around the room a little aimlessly, tapping the wall here and there, and then he went into the en suite bathroom, making a few official sounding clanking noises to put the finishing touches on his act. He walked out, looked at all of us, and announced (in Spanish), "It's just a little electrical current running through the floors. Just make sure you don't walk on the floor with wet feet. Nothing's gonna happen. No pasa nada!" And then, just like that, he left, the electrical current crackling ominously in the background - the perfect exit music.
We moved out that afternoon to another beach house, as even M, the consummate "no pasa nada" man, had to admit that the man had gone overboard in his lackadaisical attitude. M's dad, an Argentinian thoroughbred of machismo and doubt, came along with us, but maintained that, indeed, "nothing would have happened" if we had stayed. But I knew better. I could picture S toddling into that electrical box of a room, her tiny feet soaking in the currents and shooting them straight up into her curly-haired head. No pasa nada, my ass.
