I took dad, Charlie, and Max on a trip up the Natchez Trace Parkway last week, over five hundred miles without a hitch, but did dad mention how flawlessly I performed? Nooooooo….
On the contrary; as is so often the case when dealing with the elderly, every hint of a foul vapour is a reason to suspect another leak underneath my hood. Dad would panic at the slightest whiff, whipping over to the shoulder and perform very revealing examinations in full view of other cars whizzing by on the motorway; how would he like it if someone flipped his skirt up over his head and started poking around in his vitals?
So I’ve been steaming about it ever since; when mom and dad went shopping yesterday for a new car for his job, I saw my chance for revenge. Even though I know that my position at the Casa is secure, that doesn’t hinder me from being a vindictive old biddy, sometimes for no othet reason than just because I can.
So they spent waaaaay too long all googly-eyed over the latest and greatest in modern technology, which gave me plenty of time to hatch a plan to remind them who was the brightest star in the automotive firmament. When on the way home, they stopped at the Taco Smell drive though, I decided to stage a hunger strike, and laid down and refused to budge. As the drive through was only one lane, dad had no choice but to get out and push, in full view of the line of honking cars behind us waiting VERY impatientlyfor their daily dose of flatulence inducing manna. And did I mention that this drive emptied out onto one of busiest thoroughfares in the city?
But my revenge was not yet complete.
So he has my skirt up, looking at my internals with a frowny face like he actually knows what he’s doing, when a crack head strolls by and says, “cool car! My mom used to have one just like it!”
Dad narrowed the problem down to either my battery or alternator; he was somewhat fortunate that the nearest auto parts store was only a quarter mile away, so he had no choice to pull the battery and start walking. Mom suggested that he shanghai a shopping cart from the nearby Dollar store; he refused under the belief that the only thing that could make him look any more like a homeless person would be wearing a shower cap and muttering to himself.
Mom said that there were many more similarities than just those two; dad was not pleased.
So instead, dad elected to carry the battery, first on one shoulder then the other, trudging down Main Street like a pale Kalahari bushman striding across the Serengeti with his belongings on his head, with mom trotting dutifully in his wake like some sort of transient geisha girl. After getting a charge put on the battery, the Trek of Shame was then reversed.
The official diagnosis was a failed alternator, but I have my own definition: operational interruptus aggravated by acute mechanical angst.
As retribution, Dad has me in Quiet Time at the Casa; doesn’t he realize that this just gives me more time to orchestrate my next tantrum?
It’s always a party at the Casa!