When Cars Talk

My first car was a beige Ford Escort station wagon named Millie. She was old, tired, and a little bit incontinent. She moaned and creaked, but she always got me where I needed to be. I would rub her dashboard when I got in, coaxing her to start, and pat her on the seatback whenever we made it to our destination. Mille was sweet and obliging.

My Hummer, on the other hand, has an entirely different personality. His name is Dick. He blurts out commands: Change my oil. Put air in my tires. Your door is open. Answer your OnStar. My charging system is failing. Grr. He makes me so angry. It's almost like he wants me to feel privileged that I get to drive him--with his shiny rims and chrome detailing. Really, he thinks an awful lot of himself.

Well, I turned him over to my husband. We'll see if he keeps up the attitude. For now, I can go back to my unassuming Durango with its broken seat molding and misaligned driver's side door. There's nothing flashy about Durango Bill. He's a good car.

Unauthorized Yard Work

In our old house, I did the yard work, and everyone knew it. We lived on a wonderfully welcoming, tightly-knit street. When I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband went outside to cut the grass, and a neighbor stopped him to ask if I knew he was using my tools. I always giggle when I hear that story. It was a great street.

Here, many of my neighbors hire the lawn gypsies to do their work. I called once, and the prices are so ridiculous that I continued doing it all myself. The yard is large and requires much attention. It's my third child. If I neglect it, it rages with clover, threatens to kill itself, and mopes. Whenever I have a spare moment, I fly over it with the lawn tractor--something I've always wanted. Unfortunately, I killed the battery and have to jump start the thing from time to time. I wonder, if you hire someone else to tame your greens, where is the sport in keeping up with the Joneses? Really, you're not keeping up with anyone. The guy you hired should have all the credit, but I digress.

What I really want to talk about here is that yesterday, I heard some unauthorized yard work in progress. I was sitting upstairs working on a book when I heard the scraping of the shovel on the driveway. MULCH! Someone's shoveling the mulch! Overcome with panic and jealousy, I ran to the window, bumping my forehead on the sill. The family was outside mulching the trees! Don't get me wrong, I'm not an ingrate or anything, but I love to shovel mulch and smooth it around even more than mowing. It's soothing, and the family was enjoying my peace. I ran outside to join in, and they quit. Party time was over--Mom came outside. Bummer.

At least there's still much more to mulch. Maybe I can get to it tomorrow afternoon when it's a tad bit warmer outside. If I put it off, someone else will steal my fun.

Fate Works in Wondrous Ways

I now know why I have the billions of clover mites in my house. Those tiny bugs allowed me to share with a parent the fond memories I have of his child, who passed away. I wrote about the young man previously, but I never had the opportunity to tell his parents about the joy their son brought me. The mites brought about the crossing of paths, and I have said my peace. But, I am still deeply saddened over the loss of someone so full of life.

What Will Diego Do?

Let it be known that Tootsie is no fan of Diego. She can't stand him because he seems pretty slow on the uptake. Pieces of Luna could be resting on his face and he still wouldn't be able to see them without our help. And, why can't he just tell the bobos to go away by himself?

Anyway, we were sitting in the doctor's office reading an article about jaguars in National Geographic. It explained that if the jaguar populations cannot mingle to breed, then they will die out. We looked at the map and determined which populations would perish, and then Tootsie looked at me and asked, as dryly as could be, "What will Diego do then?"