When my phone danced on the counter top signalling the warning from my daughter, I realized they were here, at my humble abode in Pea Ridge. My teen aged daughter, freshly sixteen, like all other teens finds it too difficult to leave her cave to come and tell me something, so she texts her mild concerns, food requests, and wacky warnings from the comfort of her Serta. The warning? Well, the mechanic, the one who was a week overdue, was pulling my tan yard ornament onto his car trailer to take it away to his money hole. I was on my way out the front door to water my pink and purple petunias when the warning was vibrated. When the mechanic, James, and who I assumed to be his father noticed me, James said, "We are stealing your car!"
"Go ahead," I said, "I will turn it in on the insurance as stolen and go buy another."
The two men smiled and nodded in unison.
The fatherly grease monkey added, "It sure makes you want to, eh?"
I, always trying to be a female Conan stated, "I have been thinking about paying the garbage man to just run over it!"
Again, the two torque wrenches chuckled. Maybe it was because I was funny, or maybe it was because I just paid the younger thirteen hundred smack-a-roos to get started on repairing the motor of my '06 Taurus. I like to think it was because I am a laugh-a-minute kind of gal. Who really and truly knows, and who really cares? It is too hot to care, I thought.
"Taurus," I mumbled as I switched feet like a crane because the concrete walkway decided that my bare feet were the enemy and needed cooked.
Then in spite of the blown motor calamity, and the trecherous heat of the day, my mouth began to turn up on the ends. Yeah, Taurus is a good name for that piece of shit. Taurus the stubborn ass bull! I thought.
After saving my flowers from their Third of July BBQ, I retired to the couch, and I was thankful I had air conditioning--and it actually worked! At least I can watch Bobby Flay in a meat locker!
