In my younger and wilder days…although, I really wasn’t so wild if you compared me with say…wilder…kids, I had no problem “borrowing” my parents cars when their backs were turned. Actually, my mom had eyes on the back of her head (I’m NOT kidding) so, they couldn’t even be home when I “borrowed” the cars or my plans would have been foiled. Damn second set of eyeballs.
While I never got caught exactly. Not hot little hands on the leather upholstered steering wheel by first OR second set of peepers. Somehow, my parents ALWAYS seemed to find out. Well, the evidence was usually BLARING at them in the face…
For example. One evening, my parents were out to dinner with some of their friends. My sister and I were informed that they wouldn’t be back until way later. WAY LATER. So brilliant me. I decided that it was of HIGHEST priority. Regardless of strict rules NOT to touch my Moms newish Cadillac. That I just HAD to pick up my friend and hit the 7-11. Listen, when Slurpees are calling to you, you answer. Even if it means stealing…er…borrowing…your parents car. Can I get a WOOT!? Ahem…
So, on this particular Spring evening, trouble was abrewin’ in the 7-11 parking lot. Of course, how would I have known that this particular place was a hang out for my high school? Me, the innocent book worm. I would NEVER have gone, had I even had the slightest inclination that there would be problems. OK…fine, I’m not telling the truth. I knew it was a hang out. DUH. It wasn’t just the call of the Slurpee. It was the call of…hot boys hanging out there.
But alas, problems there were. In the shape of a fight. A fight between two “gangs” of kids. Kids that started throwing ROCKS. Yes…rocks. In a freaking suburban 7-11 parking lot. Thankfully, my friend and I had already scored our Slurpees and were obliviously brain-freezing away to…probably…I Wear My Sunglasses At Night, by Corey Hart. When suddenly…crash. A loud, metallic on hard earth noise. My car…excuse me, my parents car, had been caught in the crossfire of rocks, which I had been, of course, oblivious to…
And a HUGE rock ricocheted across the side of my car…er…my parents car…
Causing all sorts of dents…
Damn it. Busted.
Because I had to file a police report. Which meant that, even if my parents…by chance…didn’t see those dents on the side of the car…they’d find out anyways. In the shape of a big. Fat. Police report.
Well…find out, they did. And pay back…I did. The deductible…I paid. Sucked to be me. But I learned my lesson…
Kinda. Sorta.
Which leads me to today.
My piece of shit…I mean, my car. It is breaking down. SIGH. If it’s not one thing, it’s everything else and then some.
So anyhoo…we took it in to service. And the flipping repairs are going to cost a fortune. Which…add this to another reason why I’m going to go on a drinking binge. But…this is neither here nor there…
We need two cars. So, my husband asked his parents, very nicely. And they agreed…under one condition. I’m not allowed to drive it. WHATEVER. Only my husband can. Which, in a perfect world would be all fine and dandy only…
I’m not living in a perfect world. Or a material world, for that matter. Because if I was…I’d have a new car and wouldn’t be worrying about this stinking, broken down, piece of crap…Honda.
You see…stupid ass hubby is driving with…shhh…expired tabs on his license plates…because he keeps forgetting to go to the Secretary of State to get new ones. And…I REFUSED to be the one who gets a ticket for his stu…forgetfulness. So, I told him that I wouldn’t drive his car. Can you blame a girl??
Well, he ended up telling me to just take his Dads car. Which I did. And then…after driving it to drop little guy off at pre-school. And running a couple of errands. And picking the little guy up…
I started thinking about all the times, against my parents wishes…and without their knowledge, I took their car. Which ALWAYS led to a dent. Or a minor fender bender. Or crashing into the side of the garage. Or…well, you get the idea.
And, I got a little…nervous. To say the least…(holding breath…still)
Because, for some reason, car karma…it ALWAYS finds me. And kicks me and the stolen/borrowed car in the ass…
Which is why I’ve hidden his Dad’s car in my garage. And I’m PRAYING that the broken garage door…that I smashed into last year and never had fixed…
Doesn’t fall on the car.
Because THAT is JUST. MY. Car Karma. Luck.
I would be hiding it too!
This reminded me of when I took my Mom’s Cadillac out for a joyride when I was just 15. It was a 1977 model, and was HUGE. I fit like seven friends in the back seat. She never knew. Thank goodness nothing bad happened!
Oh the Car Karma.. It has bitten me so many times I have lost count..
I remember it well, although I thought you had permission. Always listen to mother, right girls.
If you had permission, I would’ve been with you b/c I LOVE me a Slurpee!!! Although, rumor has it that a large Slurpee has more calories than we should be consuming in a day. Be that as it may…your history speaks for itself. Call a cab! 🙂
hahahaha.
why wouldn’t his parents let you drive it? that’s just lame and totally deserving of a little dent here and there 😉
Good luck with his parents car, hope the karma doesn’t get you.
I have the same question Stacie does – why won’t his parents let you drive his car? That is very odd to me. Is there a good reason?
Sending good karma vibes your way. Last thing you need is for the in-laws to have something to hold over you. Bad car karma sucks.
In my misspent youth I knocked into a rearview mirror while trying to navigate the narrow streets of Georgetown. Still waiting for that karma to bite me in the arse!
poo on them, I’d take it out just because they told me not to drive it….