My mom obsesses over the dumbest shit. Today’s version is which route to take to get her car into the dealer on Rte. 22 for service, so it crosses 22. She’s not even going to drive the car there, so what skin is it off her back? She’s going to be ferried there as if she were royalty. I don’t see why Warnock on Rte. 10 won’t service it for her. It takes an hour to get to her place, at highway speed, and then, to get her damn car to the dealer is probably only another 20 minutes. Well, give an extra 20 for her to get her kiester moving. She called at the crack of dawn to make sure that we could get her, and her car, into the dealer half an hour before her appointment. She also had us drive all over god’s little green acre to find her some emery boards, “the shorter ones, by Revlon,” and 10″ x 13″ manila envelopes — just because she could. It’s completely manipulative behavior on her part, but since dad’s no longer around to manipulate, I’m her target now. So’s one of my cousins, who now lives in NC, but she doesn’t quite get it yet.
“You’re only an hour away, and I can’t drive 20 minutes, even on local roads!” Credit for admitting that … but then why in the hell does she still own a car? A couple of years ago, she damn near killed a biker, but avoided that collision when I yelled “Stop!” at her.
I don’t even give a shit that she told her home healthcare worker, who comes in twice a week for two hours at a time, that I was the one who drove her car through the front wall of her garage, even though I’ve never driven her car in my life. We repaired that problem, and even vacuumed up the dust left from the sanding. I’m sure I’m going to hear complaints about how the spackle doesn’t quite match the eggshell paint.
Whatever. Let’s make that your problem, instead of mine.
Leave a Reply