WW 8 - The Beat Goes On
(This Wednesday is not wordless, as tragedy has once again stuck Our Lady of Lucklessness)
Drums keep poundin’ nails into my brain
La de da de de, la de da de da.
(Those unfamiliar with the old Sonny and Cher song I just parodied are scratching their nail-less heads)
Yes friends, 1967 was the Summer of Love.
2006 has been the Summer of Shove. As in, shove a spike into my eye socket. It would be a relief. LOL
Who knew that automotive epilepsy was hereditary? I have owned some of the all-time shakiest vehicles in car manufacturing history. This passage is from my soon-to-be-released book, “Queen Klutz”.
I don’t just get flat tires; I have wheels fall off. Mufflers don’t just become noisy, they become disengaged.
My children understand the geography of our area not by landmarks, but by towing incidents.
“Oh, that’s where the transmission dropped out of the blue van.”
“You know sis, over there where the bumper fell off.”
She responds, “Which car?”
So I suppose it should come as no surprise that this trait has passed on to the boy. The boy who purchased the 4-wheel sweat lodge that had neither air conditioning nor operable windows. The one with the battery manufactured by Thomas Edison, with battery cables made from braided goat hair and chewing gum foil.
The boy who drove me home (in said sweat lodge) after I left my car at the mechanics with (y’all were right) a broken alternator.
The boy who THEN showed up at 2 AM in our bedroom saying he’d had a flat tire on the freeway. He has no jack. Course he doesn’t need a jack, he has no spare.
Husband and I arose wearily. Pulled a can of fix-a-flat from the emergency supply closet (which is larger than the living room - think he hasn’t learned anything from living with the queen of the car killers?) and off they went.
Husband instructs boy on how to squirt goo in. By the light of the silvery moon, they watch goo spew out other side. Sigh. Husband tells boy to limp vehicle to nearest tire dealer. Follows weeble-wobble boy at three miles per hour. Brings boy home.
I call tire dealer at start of business day. Please replace tire. Which tire? The flat one. Yes the one that looks like it has rabies, foaming at the south (side) from spewing fix-a-flat out its multiple malocclusions. What do you mean you don’t have a tire that size? You are a tire DEALER, for cryin’ out loud! I have to go WHERE to get one? Can’t you have it delivered? You don’t do that...swell. Hell. I am in hell. Again. I have a frequent dyer pass.
I drove the boy to work and took off for Kazackistan, the only place left on the planet that has a tire to fit the boy’s car. It is 185 degrees outside. There is road construction. I feel sorry for the workers, holding a warning sign in one hand and a gallon jug of water to their lips with the other. Until I hit a giant pothole they have yet to repair, which jarred a wire loose somewhere, and the car died. Had car towed to mechanic. Sat in smelly waiting room, while the just-installed alternator was given life again. Call tire store. Tell them it will be next day. Go pick boy up. Go home to die. Again.
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