Hubby: “What did you do to the car?”
Hubby: “What did you do to the car? It’s all fucking cracked and gished on the front bumper.”
Me: “Huh. I don’t know what happened. La la la de da…” (That last part is in my head. It’s my mental go-to when I don’t want to talk about something.)
I know what happened to the bumper. Promise you won’t tell him.
I am just a terrible parker. I mean really awful. I don’t consider the car parked unless I hit the curb, the car in front of me (Shut Up!! It wasn’t yours!) or one of those low concrete thingers that you trip over when you are walking along minding your own business, and Wham! broken foot, twisted ankle, chipped teeth. Why the fuck did they invent these bloody parky thingys in the first place?
Me.They did because of people like me. Otherwise, we’d just keep on driving/parking (to me, one in the same) right through the frigging store front.
You see on the news once in a while a van going hell-bent through a restaurant window or 7-11? I really feel for those folks. I relate while others shake their heads.
When I was 16, I took my driving test. The first time I lost 50 points (30 were allowed), the second time I hit a car while parallel parking (again, wasn’t yours) and the third time, the tester just kinda looked at me for a while and said,”I’ll give it to you but promise me you’ll practice before you drive anywhere with traffic.” I felt a bit bad for him because he looked really scared so I promised.
The son is used to it. He waits for the whiplash feeling of a sudden halt and says, “Mum, I think we’re parked.” I love that boy’s helpfulness.
So if we go driving, I’ll need you to hang onto the dog so he doesn’t go flying and please wait for the impact before you exit the car.
And don’t tell hubby.