I went back to work today. Because we are planning a trip for Thanksgiving to visit The Artist, Popi, my 90 year old dad took my car in to the garage since I have never been back to get my dirty transmission fluid flushed. Whatever that means.
Yes, Popi will be 91 in 2 months and is still driving. And yes, he is still
How did this hard drinking, red meat consuming, cholesterol clogged, Pearl Harbor, Battle of Midway survivor, type A, obsessive-compulsive perfectionist make it this long? Is there no accounting for life style anymore? Here I am Ms. Organic and I can hardly walk. The arthritis in my foot is so bad the orthopedic surgeon informed me I need an artificial joint. I am one day away from being one of those little old ladies who wears those beige orthopedic shoes with a big ragged hole cut out of the side to accommodate their giant "bunion."
I mean seriously people. I. Just. Don't. Get. It.
So I borrow Popi's car for work while he takes mine to the garage. Picture this...
I can't adjust his car seat so my knees are resting on the dashboard. I am much taller than my father, obviously.
I can't get the windows to roll up so I'm riding down the interstate with all four windows down. People are passing me and staring. A receipt blows into the car. An aluminum can from a truck just misses my head.
Why exactly did I hot roller my hair this morning?
I keep realizing I'm going 80 mph in this powerful little car but that's ok because my father has a "fuzz buster" installed since he likes to go on road trips and he never abides by rules of any kind.
He sits with the seat so far back I feel like I'm in a Lazy Boy recliner. I can't adjust it so I have to ride to work in this manner. As I explain to my clients from Trinidad on my second stop that this is my father's car they exclaim, "He drives like a teenager, mon!'
I have to remove his panoramic rear view mirror because it's making my Menieres' go berserk. I feel nauseous.
I arrive at my first clients home. We've known each other a very long time. She tells it like it is. I realized there must be someone else in the house when she politely looked at me and states, "You look a little windblown." I was correct. She had a visitor. The Guardian Ad Litem for one of her foster children was present.
Because her normal response upon seeing me would have been...
"What the hell happened to you?"
After work I gladly returned Popi's car informing him only of the window issue.
"You need to work these things out BEFORE you get on the road."
I could have pounced on him and pounded him into the ground. But I let it go.
I am no match for this man.