The other day he asked me to come outside and help him fix the passenger side door. My job was to lean on it and hold it closed with my prodigious bulk (I was glad it finally came in handy for something) while he jury rigged it with duct tape and a couple of old shoe laces. Passengers now have to enter and exit through the window, but at least they no longer have to worry about falling out going around corners.
The car, a battered red Honda civic, is a recent replacement for an equally battered Mazda protege. At first glance the protege didn't look half bad, but it had the nasty habit of coming home on the tow-truck every time he drove it more than fifteen miles out of town. After putting more new parts into it than I care to think about, the transmission finally went. Following yet another long tow truck ride we decided it was finally time to junk it.
We purchased the civic from a friend-of-a-friend. She said the car was in great shape, that it had no problems. And it didn't, at least for the first ten minutes. Then I rolled the window down and we quickly realized it wasn't going to go up again without taking the door apart. Aside from the door and window issues, the air conditioning doesn't work and the little knob that controls the lights on the dash is missing. It also has something wrong with the muffler that makes it sound like a 747 zooming through the neighborhood. (My son actually seems to like that, for some reason. The neighbors and I, not so much).
I've given up freaking out over stuff like this. Instead, I am trying to look on the bright side: At least we finally found a use for those shoelaces in the kitchen junk drawer.
As I said, I'm sure one day my son will look back and laugh about all this . . . it just won't be anytime soon.
|Evan in the Protege saying "Mom! Don't take a picture, this is embarassing!"|