Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I can tell it’s spring at my house when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”
About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.
I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.
I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.
But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.
When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglass, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”
Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.
The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”
That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Mercedes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mercedes. Show all posts
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Thursday, August 7, 2008
My Car and Welcome to It
I was almost robbed once. The burglar mistook my vehicle for a real car. I would have been embarrassed if I hadn’t been so busy being depressed that he didn’t get away with it.
Although I consider myself fortunate to have a means of transportation that is the same in purpose, if not in scope as that of Britney’s Mercedes, I couldn’t help feeling slighted and somewhat downtrodden. The thief, apparently Smarter Than a Fifth Grader on a Nascar scholarship, abandoned my car, complete with key in the ignition and my old Reese Cup wrappers and empty YooHoo cans in the floorboard at the end of the driveway. My driveway. He only got as far as the mailbox. He didn’t even have the decency to leave a note promising to try harder the next time.
It’s easier to forget that emergency tonsillectomy when you were ten than to forget your first car. The wishy-washy window that wouldn’t make a decision—was it stuck halfway up or halfway down? The gearshift that only shifted with the aid of a handy pair of needlenose pliers. The windshield wiper that didn’t wipe, just sort of meandered across the windshield like the Mississippi River on noncommittal trip to the Gulf.
My first car didn’t actually belong to me, but I had squatter’s rights. It was important to squat just in case one of the minor functions, such as braking or steering, either of which was subject to a moral failure of responsibility, refused to answer to repeatedly hysterical demands and I needed to execute an emergency exit through the small gap where the window used to open.
The Green Demon I called it, and it guzzled gas and followed with an oil chaser like it was whiskey and soda. A chronic gastrointestinal disturbance caused it to spew plumes of white smoke whenever I happened to make a successful start off the line at stoplights.
But because my Daddy had the magic touch to coerce miles out of that malfunctioning motor, that car got me through college and landed me successfully in the right place on graduation day. That crazy car was just the first in a long line of little engines that couldn’t.
But isn't it always the bad relationships that make the best memories? I'll check with Britney on that.
Although I consider myself fortunate to have a means of transportation that is the same in purpose, if not in scope as that of Britney’s Mercedes, I couldn’t help feeling slighted and somewhat downtrodden. The thief, apparently Smarter Than a Fifth Grader on a Nascar scholarship, abandoned my car, complete with key in the ignition and my old Reese Cup wrappers and empty YooHoo cans in the floorboard at the end of the driveway. My driveway. He only got as far as the mailbox. He didn’t even have the decency to leave a note promising to try harder the next time.
It’s easier to forget that emergency tonsillectomy when you were ten than to forget your first car. The wishy-washy window that wouldn’t make a decision—was it stuck halfway up or halfway down? The gearshift that only shifted with the aid of a handy pair of needlenose pliers. The windshield wiper that didn’t wipe, just sort of meandered across the windshield like the Mississippi River on noncommittal trip to the Gulf.
My first car didn’t actually belong to me, but I had squatter’s rights. It was important to squat just in case one of the minor functions, such as braking or steering, either of which was subject to a moral failure of responsibility, refused to answer to repeatedly hysterical demands and I needed to execute an emergency exit through the small gap where the window used to open.
The Green Demon I called it, and it guzzled gas and followed with an oil chaser like it was whiskey and soda. A chronic gastrointestinal disturbance caused it to spew plumes of white smoke whenever I happened to make a successful start off the line at stoplights.
But because my Daddy had the magic touch to coerce miles out of that malfunctioning motor, that car got me through college and landed me successfully in the right place on graduation day. That crazy car was just the first in a long line of little engines that couldn’t.
But isn't it always the bad relationships that make the best memories? I'll check with Britney on that.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Seek Not
Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I know it’s spring when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas.
I’m looking for the day when the first flush of spring brings added surprises. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”
About the only thing I hate worse than that first flush is the annual Easter egg hunt at the farm. This year, Easter comes at the end of March, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide, much like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.
I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity, which is like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano.
I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and a labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.
I can hide eggs. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Mom any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.
But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble around all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order high school graduation announcements for the baby.
When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglas, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”
Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, my teenaged son discovered a plastic egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny chocolate bar huddled in a faded wrapper.
“Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs we never found!”
That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. I don’t care if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.
I’m looking for the day when the first flush of spring brings added surprises. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”
About the only thing I hate worse than that first flush is the annual Easter egg hunt at the farm. This year, Easter comes at the end of March, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide, much like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.
I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity, which is like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano.
I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and a labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.
I can hide eggs. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Mom any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.
But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble around all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order high school graduation announcements for the baby.
When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglas, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”
Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, my teenaged son discovered a plastic egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny chocolate bar huddled in a faded wrapper.
“Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs we never found!”
That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. I don’t care if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)