It's become apparent to me that my beloved mother hates my car.
I drive a 2005 Buick that was one of my dad's little cream puffs from his used car biz. (Motto: Wright Cars, Wright Prices, Jack Wright). I've had it about eight months now and I love my car. It's big and the radio works and the doors open with a remote control and I can fit at least five bodies in the trunk. What's not to love?
Apparently, my mom can think of a lot of reasons. "That car is too old for you! It's too old for me. It's too big and you need something younger and cooler." When I told her I wouldn't trade it for any other car even if I won the lotto, she looked pained. It really bothers her. The other day when we were talking about it, she called me a mutton head. I think that's an insult.
My mother is nuts, because I know my car is cool. How do I know this? After I got my Buick (which was a repo, if I'm going to be honest), I found this picture of its previous owners underneath the seat.
Now these ladies know how to have fun and they don't worry about driving a senior citizen's car. I wait anxiously for my mother's apology.