I Don't Understand

Many years ago, when I was a workin' woman, I drove a Mercedes Benz circa 1985. We bought her when Daughter was about 9 months old, so the car was already five years old.

But it was a Mercedes. Well, I loved that car. I still do, but I can't drive it because the foot feed is extremely hard to push and the seats are tilted in a way that makes me feel like I'm undergoing torture.

Anyway, I was in town for something, and when I turned the ignition key to off, the car kept running. No matter how many times I tried, the car would not turn off.

So, somewhat alarmed, I pulled into the nearest garage. I told the feller the problem. He got in, got out, and said, "Ma'am, your car is cut off."

Very funny, I thought. "Then explain to me how it is I drove it here, and can still hear it running, even as we speak."

There. Take that.

He launched into a rather long speech about how a diesel doesn't have to have electricity to operate, and as long as it has fuel, it will run. then he said, "Blah, blah, celluloid injection pump blah, blah, blah."

It sounded pretty much the same as every time my car has ever torn up. 

Anyway, he showed me how to push a button or turn a lever or something that would turn the engine off until some sort of part could be ordered re-connecting the engine to the rest of the car.

Doesn't it seem to you (if you are a mechanic, stay out of this) that the car should have stopped working completely, instead of continuing to run if something was broken?

Just askin'.

Give Me A Mule Any Day

Daughter totaled her car a few months back, so we have been somewhat disadvantaged in the car department as of late.

Today, she asked to borrow what we call "my" car. I said yes.

Husband went to town and our old 1985 Mercedes ran hot, and I don't mean it looked good on the road.

Although it does.

Mr. Garage says it sounds like the thermostat, making an over-the-phone diagnosis.

So, Husband goes to crank (that's old South for start) our truck.  I lovingly call this the dump truck because Husband refuses to be smart and go to the dump on a weekly basis, waiting until the truck bed is full of garbage, which it is as we speak.

It won't start.

That makes zero cars at our house that will run, and with the way my health has been lately, it ain't a real smart thing.

So, I call up Daughter and say after you have dinner at Present Boyfriend's Mama's house, come home immediately.

She wasn't happy.

Well, neither am I, it just so happens it's for two different reasons.

It will be "several" days before Mr. Garage can get to the Mercedes.

Husband hopes maybe he flooded the truck and it will start tomorrow.

Daughter will come home unhappy, but she'll come home.

Lord, I hope that girl drives carefully.