Yesterday, we found out that our seventeen year old serial killer car is not worth repairing.
We celebrated by eating white flour rolls with apricot jam for breakfast, which has not a single redeemable calorie. Delicious.
Then we drove out to a parking lot to empty the boot of the car. (I've decided to be British today). I was stung with regret that I had not brought a camera to record our taking leave of this car. It was our last tie with New York City where we bought it. We bought it because my ankle replacement failed and walking long distances was impossible. We bought it, because Ed and Dede and family lived in New Jersey, and the one time we visited them via Penn Station was irritating. We bought it to escape Manhattan. Manhattan sizzles with cultural accumulations, but sometimes it burns the soles of your feet as well.
Anyhow, we took our old fogey chairs, a couple of umbrellas and sun hats and paper clutter and took off for Farmington to pick up some paintings Tom instructed me how and where to drive: a veritable monologue of instructions. Maybe, I don't like instructions. Maybe, I was hungry, but driving down Main Street in Farmington, I lodged this bomb: "Stop telling me how to drive; you're the one who ran a stop sign!"
If I were writing a book on marital communications, I'd say that shout-out was a ball buster. Ach du lieber Himmel!
Tom said, "We'll, you're the one who let that semi spit that iron grate into the front of the car on I-15!"
We burst into laughing.
We are still married.