Believe it or not, “My Mother the Car” was real sit-com in 1965 starring Jerry Van Dyke who owned a car who was inhabited by his mother’s spirit. She talked to him via the radio. Nightmare? I say yes.
My own car makes
passive aggressive suggestions just like my mother did, especially when she was
driving with me.
My Honda reminds me all the time about
cars approaching me on the right and left.
“I KNOW!” I hear in my brain.
Dolores (my mother) is just trying to be helpful. There are lights, but that’s not a good
enough warning—I need to be beeped at as well.
Apparently, I
don’t brake soon enough for my car’s taste.
Just as once, my mother’s foot used to stomp on the floorboard while she
road shotgun alerting me that she thought I should slow down, Honda flashes a
BRAKE warning in orange, large font.
“Yes, Mom, I know, I see the red light.”
Annoyingly, Dolores, as my Honda, will turn down the air conditioning fan if I’m making a phone call. “You can’t hear the other person with that noise” it seems to say, off-handedly, while thumbing through a magazine, not making eye contact.
There is something messed up with the camera in front, because my car is constantly telling me that I am going out of the lanes. LANE DEVIATOR it accuses and vibrates my steering wheel. With all the construction in Michigan, it supposes I’m a crazy driver, when I’m really trying to stay on the shoulder in between cones and barrels.
It may as well
have said:
“You’re not
going to eat all of that, are you?”
“If I were you,
I wouldn’t wear those pants.”
“Want me to
pluck your eyebrows?”
Ahh, I still
miss her in many ways, but as for the nagging, I think I can get a mechanic now
instead of dodging her phone calls.
No comments:
Post a Comment