I take this approach to all things vehicular because I prefer the simple, unsophisticated side of car
ownership. In other words, I leave most of the decisions to my husband, which neatly allows me to sidestep all those burning car questions, such as "Do you have a set of jumper cables?" "What's the horsepower?"
and "Can this big car fit into that itty-bitty parking space?" I'd rather learn the process for shrinking heads than lug around jumper cables. Besides, even if I did carry them, would you want a woman who once
put a zipper into a dress inside out attaching those little thingamabobs to YOUR engine? Think about it.
As to the question of horse power, you might as well ask me how many pounds of elephant poop Hannibal
left behind in the mountains. Not only do I not know, but I don't give a, uh, hoot, either.
In truth, my accumulated lifetime knowledge of automobiles could be reduced to liquid and poured into the head of
Kathie Lee Gifford and there would still be room for new living room furniture and a space shuttle or two.
Of course, now that I'm the parent of a teenager with another one poised firmly in pre-teenhood, I am
always behind the wheel of a car, whether I like it or not. And that means I have to deal with those burning car issues of jumper cables, horsepower and – worst of all – parking.
I've said before that parking a
car is my least favorite part of driving. If I lived in a big city with parallel parking on the streets, I would drive around in circles until I ran out of gas, because my parallel parking skills are on a par with my
ability to bungee jump.
But my spouse loves to drive. My daughter can't wait until she qualifies for a license. My son has his first car picked out (a Ferrari, and I hope he makes a lot of money). I'm the
oddball – I hate driving, don't know one car from the next and, if given a choice of driving or cleaning the oven would be up to my elbows in yellow rubber gloves and Easy-Off®.
Get the picture? I'm a
middle-aged driver who couldn't attach a jumper cable if Mario Andretti walked me through it. I don't understand horsepower and don't care. And parking…well, the other night I picked up my daughter at her dance class. I
pulled into the driveway and parked next to the van. And darling daughter piped up with this: "Gee Mom, Dad's right. He said he took the fence (that was next to the driveway) down because you always parked too close to
it and now that it's down you park too close to the van!"
In the window, I could see Mr. Goodwrench snoozing in his recliner, doubtless with visions of banana pudding dancing in his head, and I decided right
then and there not to distress him by parking so close to the van.
But I do hope he gets the car out of the backyard before the squirrels start building nests in it.
