Driving Miss Dasiy?

Photo from Google Images

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 sane alert. And yes, he still does manual labor. Construction. Tree climbing. Yard work.

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.