Monday, March 7, 2011

Open letter to my car. And ode to my dad.

Dear Impala,
Yes, I know you don't have a name or even a car gender. I tend to name my computers... not my cars... But your gonna earn the name Bitch if you don't knock your shit off.
I put mid grade gas in you. I listen to good music in you. I make sure that your oil is changed, your tires are correctly inflated. You get regular baths even in winter... I get the damn good wash too. The list goes on. I know you have boo-boos, some are my fault. Some aren't. I am working on fixing those, so cut me some slack.
Lately... you have fish-tailed and spun out on me. I'll blame part of that on the effing snow. The cigarette lighter socket quit working for no damn reason leaving me to chose between charging my phone or listening to my Zen w the other port.  But this wiper arm? On the driver's side?
It is on my last damn nerve.
The first time it came loose I thought I was screwed. It flopped all over the windshield like a fish out of water. Thankfully my dad got my frantic voicemail an knew exactly what was wrong after talking to me. He fixed it. In like 3 damn minutes.
It was fine for about month. Then I noticed it was out of position the night of snowhell. It was going too far again. And I adjusted it. Then I woke up to more effing snow Sunday morning. While I cursed the whole way to the car, I wasn't counting on you being a bitch.
As soon as I switched on the wiper and saw it flop off the side of the CAR, I invented new curse words... I repositioned the arm. AGAIN. On my way to cranberry I called my dad, (thank you daddy, for answering the phone at 830 am on a Sunday) and ask in my rant mode voice, what the eff tool should I buy to fix my effing wiper arm. Why? Because the damn thing is flopping on the side of my damn car AGAIN!! It looks like its trying to reach the door window!!!
Tonight after work, my dad was out in the cold and dark putting a locking washer and some locktite on there. I put the arm in the right position. This better be the last time we talk about this. I don't want to have to replace the whole effing arm. If you don't knock your shit off, I'll put more princess band aids on you!
I'll start calling you "the bitch."
[Mom voice]
I mean it.Enough.
Love, me.

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