If Dad Only Knew

 

My first memory of my dad's car was the Packard. Unfortunately I was too young to really appreciate that 1941 Packard before it got run over by a semi-truck. After that, and when it became apparent that Mom and Dad were not going to stop making babies, Dad switched to Ford station wagons. His first one was a green 1956. It had a six cylinder engine, and stick shift on the column. It wasn't even a year old, almost new. I was creeped out by that car when I found out how my dad found it. He told us that he got a great deal because the previous owner had dropped dead. After five years, the dead guy's car had worn out and one evening Dad returned from work in a big, brown 1961 Ford station wagon. Again, it had an anemic six cylinder engine with stick shift on the column. Very boring, but brand new. Four years after that my dad again came home from work in a different car than the one he had left with in the morning. This time it was a brand new 1965 Ford station wagon. Exactly like the previous one, brown with a six cylinder engine and stick shift on the column. I was fifteen years old and my dad couldn't have been any more boring. He kept that car for two years, so for six years we became known as the family with the shit brown Fords. And then in 1967 a big surprise. Late one evening Dad came home from work in, yes, another brand new Ford station wagon. But this one was not boring. It was beautiful blue, had an automatic transmission, and had a badge on the front fender with the numbers 390 on it. That was a V8 engine! Not a wimpy 289, but a big powerful engine. Just in time for me to enjoy with my newly acquired drivers license. Seriously, if my dad knew what went on every time he let me borrow his new car, he would have had a conniption fit. All I will admit to here is that it was capable of going well over 120mph. I'm not exactly sure how fast I was going because once the speedometer got past that 120, it just kept moving until it could move no more.

The Packard crushed by a semi-truck

I'll Tumble For You

 

I had an appointment with the dermatologist yesterday. I had planned to cancel it, but you know. Twenty seven years living in Florida and there's always a chance that sun got me. So, I went to the appointment.

Funny thing about me. I usually have a  pretty good fall at least once a year. I've messed up my ankles, my knees, and bruised most of my extremities taking a dive. What I've learned from all the trips and falls is that you have to roll with it. Don't put your hands out front to break the fall, you'll only break your wrists. Anyway, I'm leaving the doctor's office and walking across the street to the parking lot. I could have crossed at the marked crosswalk with the designated sidewalk that enters the parking lot. But no, I'm better than that. I crossed in the middle of the block with the idea that I could climb through the shrubbery and get to my car more quickly. I never got to the shrubbery. I tripped on the curb and hit the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes. I rolled with it, just like I said you should. This had me end up on my back with my arms flailing about like an upended turtle. A young man who had been a few steps behind me stopped and asked if I was alright. The only word that came out of my mouth was, "Fuck!", which I just kept repeating. The young man stood there for a moment and then walked away. Apparently cursing does not get you much help. Then two more young guys came trotting over, seemingly upset that the other guy didn't help me get up. Again, they asked if I was alright. Unfortunately the only word that wanted to come out of my mouth was "Fuck", which I was still repeating over and over again. They also did not help me get up, and walked away. Once I assessed my situation and determined that nothing was broken and nothing was bleeding, I dragged myself to my feet. I was going to be okay even though I was still muttering the word "Fuck" as I wobbled to my car. So everything turned out just fine yesterday morning. I didn't break any bones, and I don't have any skin cancer.

Jack of All Trades

 

One thing I got from my dad was the Do-it-Yourself gene. For some reason my dad always thought that he was capable of doing on his own, what professionals are paid to do. Like the time he decided that removing a lilac bush on our property line would be easy. It wasn't. After hacking at the thing for what seemed like an hour, he talked a neighbor into tying a rope around the rear bumper of his car and then tying the other end around the bush. When all was ready the car jerked forward, and the rope became taut as it strained to pull out the bush. A loud metallic sound signaled the bumper ripping off the car while the shrub shook a little and then stood right back up. I don't remember how he finally got that thing out of the ground because we kids scattered as curses filled the air. I've faired a little better with my DIY efforts. Most have turned out okay, other than the one inch gap at the bottom of my tenant's back door. I never was very skilled with a circular saw. I mis-measured and cut the door too short. No way was I going to spend money on a new door, so I just told Dennis that it was for ventilation.

Six years ago Mark bought an antique medicine cabinet. It was perfect for our hundred year old bathroom. At some point, somebody had removed the original cabinet and put up a large mirror over the hole in the wall. I'm sure they thought it looked great, but we did not and wanted the vintage look. So a year later I installed the new vintage cabinet. It did not quite fit the hole left by the old original cabinet, but I promised Mark that I'd fix that with some tile to fill in around the new one. Now, five years later, I have finally got around to starting that job. On Saturday, after gathering all the tools I needed and the tiles, I began. So far I have managed to affix two tiles that immediately began to slide down the wall. I used tape to keep them up along with a couple of more dabs of tile glue and now have to wait until they dry and bond to the wall before I go any further.....

...At least that's what I'm telling myself.

I Use Bad Language

 

Let me ask those who know me personally and have heard me talk, do I slur my words? Do I have a heavy Chicago accent that is unintelligible to anybody who is not from Chicago? Because all the voice activated conveniences in my house seem to think that is the case. They do not hear what I think I am clearly saying. Alexa, the television remote, my phone's voice to text function, and the computer in my car all seem to think I am speaking some unknown language. It's very frustrating and it drives me crazy. I'll tell the computer in the car to call a phone number and I get an off key tone that then tells me to "Please use a command such as..." The car will then try to give me a tutorial on how to address it properly. Other drivers must think I'm crazy when they see me screaming at the top of my lungs, "CALL DENNIS AT HOME!!!, CALL DENNIS AT HOME GODDAMNIT!!" Of course that never works and I end up having to use the touch screen on the dashboard as I speed down the highway. Alexa, the Amazon smart thing that Mark bought, also does not understand me. I will ask her a question or request a radio station be played, and end up getting a long winded explanation of something she has "found on the internet" that is totally not what I was looking for. Once again, if I scream at her and call her filthy names, all I get is a 'bloop' sound and she goes silent. Texting on the phone is a challenge. Since the tiny keyboard is too small to easily type, I use voice to text. It never comes out correctly and often picks up words off the television to intersperse with my words. Finally, there is the television remote. It is voice activated which should be very convenient. It is not. Sometimes I tell it to change channels and all I get is a beep and a message telling me something is wrong. When I finally lose my temper and scream obscenities into the remote, it has no problem understanding that. I then get an answer on the screen that I have somehow insulted it. Like I said, do I slur my words. Am I that hard to understand?