A tired, beat up red 1999 Volkswagen Bug sits in my driveway, sighing and peeling in the sun. It’s a castoff, this car, once owned by my sweetheart’s punk-rock daughter. The gas gauge doesn’t work, and a siphon hose coils like a skinny, anemic snake underneath the flat spare tire. The headliner shrugs toward a fake, crippled daisy leaning in the vase that, apparently, comes standard issue with this model.
A flower vase. In a car. As if somebody ever said, “You know, I don’t like this car much, but I LOVE the flower vase! I’ll buy it!” (Actually, I know someone who did. She was stoned at the time and, driven by impulse, blew off her severe allergic response to cuteness in deference to the weed.)
Me: “Carolyn, aren’t you allergic to fake flowers?”
Her: “Yes, but aw, it’s so cute! Look, it’s smiling at me!”
Smiling car salesman: “Would you prefer a pink or blue daisy? Or, take me with you and you can have both hah hah hah.”
Said sweetheart and his 28-year year old, high-functioning autistic son (who splits his time between his sister’s house and ours) are headed out to the car wash and to make a few other stops. Ryan is in charge of picking out the movie we’ll watch later today.
Me: “No Harry Potter, no Left Behind, OK?”
Ryan: “But popcorn and m&ms, right?”
I wonder if m&ms will stack nicely in that vase…