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Speedy Gonzales Strikes Again
Once again I am just astounded to find that I am writing about my oldest son,
Speedy Gonzales . I realize that it is perhaps unchristian of me, but I am
starting to get really exasperated by his current lack of driving skills. It
seems it is taking him an inordinately long time to achieve some sort of driving
finesse. Predictably, he staged his latest episode at a most inconvenient time.
Craig and I were having a soirée of sorts; that is to say, I had cleaned the
house and decorated for the holidays, and people had brought food. They brought
the food because everyone who knows me knows that I hate to cook. Recently I
began to suspect that people actually hate my cooking, as I seem to have
terminal potluck failure at all the parties we attend. My dish languishes,
ignored, on some table, and Craig, loyal spouse that he is, eats the majority of
my entrée.
Back to the story at hand....Speedy calls me and announces that he has had a
slight altercation with a puddle. Am wondering how serious this could be, as I
myself love to dash through puddles and watch the water fly over the hood, as if
I am in a boat. I know this is juvenile, but I attribute it to the reckless days
of my youth when I used to drive my motorcycle through puddles, which usually
resulted in a crash into the said giant puddle, and a complete soaking; but I
digress, as usual.
Speedy begins to whimper and whine about the depth of the puddle. Firmly, I tell
him to "man up," gun the engine, and get the heck out of the puddle. He says he
has already tried that, so should he roll up his pant legs and push the car?
Good grief! This is worse than I thought. Sweat begins to puddle under my arms
as I consider the ramifications of the foolish oldest son's latest mishap. While
he whimpers, I can hear other teenagers laughing in the background. Grow irate
me and tell him to get out and push: I am in the middle of hosting a party. He
says he will call when he gets things sorted.
Two hours later, he calls to report that the car is now on the side of road, and
his pants are wet. Car will not start, and Speedy wonders what to do next. I
advise him to leave a note on car so it will not be towed away, and to find
himself a ride home. I absolutely will not come and get him. I manage, but only
just, to refrain from calling him an idiot.
Next day, I wake up with a sinking feeling, knowing that we have to deal with
the waterlogged car. Speedy leads us to it, and is crestfallen to find that it
will still not start: he knows this does not bode well for him. He thinks back
to the incident with the snow bank, and then of course there was the time when
he backed into his brother's car. Poor Speedy. Dreadful visions of weedwacking
every weekend at one of our properties alarm him. Craig and I let him stew over
his eventual punishment for several days. We take the car in for repair to our
friend, who has grown wealthy from all our son's accidents. Notice that said
friend has purchased a new speed boat.
When the bill arrives, and we hand it to Speedy, he protests mightily. Speedy
feels that the vehicle was not properly built, because it is too low to the
ground. How can a person drive through puddles with this manufacturing defect?
Gently point out that perhaps he could have made a different choice, and driven
around the puddle. A lot of grousing and complaining ensues. The battle wages on
but we now have the upper hand as now the car is in the shop, and Speedy has to
work to get it out.
Some lessons are harder to learn than others. The old saying about apples and
trees also seems to be coming into play a lot lately. I recall Craig's mother
recounting some rather disastrous incidents involving Craig, his pick-up truck
and ditches..........
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