I was in a dead sleep at 9 a.m Monday morning. I was sweating during the night and must have strewn the covers onto the floor. I was sprawled out on the bed taking up every inch of my mattress.
Then my Dad wakes me up. “Are you up? You have to clean out your car. I don’t want you to look like a slob.”
My bedroom door was closed- thank goodness because I lost my pants sometime during the night.
“Okay, okay I’m up.”
We were towing my car over to my dad’s friends house who fixes cars on the side. He gotten a lot of business from me over the years.
I find my pants, slid on some flip-flops and grabbed an empty plastic grocery bag and cleaned out my car. I left the half empty water bottles (in case I get thirsty), my blankets, my hoodie jacket and a small box of emergency tampons on the floor in the front seat.
I go back into my bedroom and back to sleep.
“Clean your car! It’s still a mess. Stop looking like a slob!”
He’s yelling at me again from outside my bedroom door.
“Okay, okay, I’m up, Jeez. You want me to vacuum it too?”
“No just clean it up.”
“But I need all those things in there.” I was groggy and half awake.
This time I throw out my water bottles and I shoved my tampons in the glove compartment. I went back into my room, laid down, and sure enough a few minutes later I hear my dad outside my door.
“It’s still a mess.”
My parents own a cadillac and ever since I can remember, they always kept their car immaculate. Yesterday my dad had to pick up the caddy from his friend’s house who washed, waxed and detailed it. My dad needed me to drive his truck back home.
It was around 9 am Tuesday morning. I was in a dead, sweaty, narcoleptic sleep. Covers were once again strewn about and my pants were M.I.A.
“Wake up! I need you to pick up the car with me.”
“I’m up, I’m up.”
I found my pants, slipped on some flip-flops and at the last minute decided to put on a bra. My pajama’s smelled pretty bad cause I’ve been sweating in them so much the past few nights, but I didn’t care. My dad thinks I’m a slob anyway.
I go to meet him at the front door. He looks at me, then at my feet, then at me again and says, “you can’t drive in those. Go put on some shoe’s.”
“But I always drive in these. What’s wrong with flip-flops?”
“Just change them.”
And so I changed them. This was the first time driving my dad’s truck. He’s letting me use it until I get my little escort back. He warned me against smoking in it and taking it anywhere other than work. Today I smoked in it, talked on the phone, and I may take it to Billy O’s today after work.
Billy O’s is a bar that a lot of my old-time acquaintances frequent.
“No taking it to Cherry O’s.” He calls Billy O’s, Cherry O’s cause he has trouble remembering things.
I love my dad. I probably just made him sound like a hard-ass in this post, but he’s really not. I feel bad for breaking his car etiquette rules.
I gotta get back to work. Three more to go then I’m off to Cherry O’s!