Tag Archives: McDonald's

It’s the Car’s Fault

My driver’s education teacher, Mr. Doom, began our first session saying, “I don’t like women drivers.”

Neither did my license examiner, because I failed my first driver’s test. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I’ve never felt comfortable with cars.

One friend, however, described his potential purchase’s power seats, mirrors and door locks with the tender awe he would a forever love. I asked if they had set a date.

Image by Cam Bowers from Pixabay.

Me? I’ve felt more excited about sump pumps.

Cars complicate my life. No parking space ever stretches wide enough. Cars hide from me. If I stop at McDonald’s, I know upon return, I finally will find my car sulking behind Kohl’s.

My cars overreact. For example, I was taking my son to a birthday party when I ran over a large box flattened on the road. My minivan resurrected this cardboard roadkill. It fastened onto the transmission, which emitted strangulation noises. (Have you ever tried to explain tardiness because a killer box attacked you en route?)

My cars also exhibit marked attention deficit disorders. One ignored big rocks lining a business’s driveway, catching its underbelly on them. As its wheels spun helplessly, I wondered if we would grow old together there.

Fortunately, the omnipotent secretary assured me of help forthcoming and rang a bell. The eager help, who thought she had summoned them for doughnuts, received the high honor of carrying my minivan to freedom.

I told them, honest, it was the car’s fault. Guys! They always believe machines first.

Image by Ryan Doka from Pixabay.

For years, I tried to understand their inner workings — both guys’ and cars’. But whenever I crossed a garage’s sacred portals, the Gods of Grease inevitably inquired if the right troyer rod’s connection was causing me problems. Had I brought the car in to have its emulsifier de-linted, and did enough air reach the cogschain?

I was more comfortable posing on a car than driving one!

Or something like that.

Finally, I found a repair shop that doesn’t lock up when I drive in.

I simply say, “Please winterize the car,” and they take care of it. Even if it’s July.

Some people are comfortable with women drivers, Mr. Doom. Even if the ladies are uncomfortable with cars.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a car fan?

Grandbirds!

Nestbuilding robins need a blueprint.

During the COVID shutdown, Hubby and I discovered weird vandals had swathed our garage light with dead tiger lily leaves.

“You never know how quarantine boredom will affect some people,” he said.

Eventually, we discovered Courtney, a robin, wasn’t bored. She was constructing a nest.

She and Jason, her mate, must have flunked Nestbuilding 101. Their shapeless leaf pile dangled halfway to the ground.

Image by annca from Pixabay.

No eggs or nestlings fell. Still, we felt sorry for the hardworking couple. Hopefully, they’d consult a new architect before trying that blueprint again.

“Looks like we hung shrunken heads on the garage,” I observed.

Eventually, the robins’ mess toppled.

Instead, Courtney and Jason built another amorphous mound of lily leaves, topped by a tipsy nest.

We held our breath as Courtney settled in. Don’t lean to the right! Or left! No heavy lifting. Raise your feet so they won’t swell!

Mama robin broods her eggs in the tipsy nest.

Courtney took on a new-mama look: frazzled and frumpy, with missing feathers she’d worked into her nest. She probably couldn’t stand Jason, debonair in his neat, black-and-red suit. You did this to me!

Still, Jace babysat eggs and brought food to his grouchy spouse.

We grandparents-to-be grudgingly admitted the garage-light choice made sense. Under an overhang, the birds escaped bad weather. A perfect distance from the ground and roof, their abode protected them from interested neighborhood cats.

Those kids were smarter than we thought.

For Courtney, 14 days on the nest probably seemed like 14 years.

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay.

Then, it happened.

Hubby yelled, “Jason’s pecking at the nest!”

Our worry changed to celebration. Three tiny, wide-open beaks clamored for Daddy Jason’s tasty victual.

“Ya-ay-ay! Triplets!”

We did the Grandma-and-Grandpa Dance.

Unsure of their gender, we named the babies Ellie, Nellie and Belly — the last, the pushiest at dinnertime.

Success! Despite the messy precarious nest, the robins raised three babies.

Their parents, making 100 trips a day to find food, didn’t care about their children’s preferences: “What, you think this is McDonald’s? Eat!”

They did. A lot.

Soon, they crowded the nest as if in the back seat of a VW Beetle. Before long, the triplets left home.

Impossible! A little sad. But even nasty viruses couldn’t banish our smiles as we witnessed that shiny, brand-new life. How glad we were that Courtney and Jason moved into our neighborhood!

Though, about that nest blueprint, kids. Maybe you should check out different ones the next time?

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have birds squatted on your property?