I just put away my winter stuff to make room for summer stuff and wondered, yet again, why jeans and tee shirts fill my closet. I think I finally figured it out.
And I put the blame squarely on my three sons.
You see, when they were first driving, we wanted them to have safe cars so we got Volvos for them. Used, of course. Seriously used. They’d all been rode hard and put away wet. They were “Centurians”….100,000 miles or more on each of them. As a result, we were always in the market for “parts.”
Now, I had lovely friends, who, with their lovely daughters, went to lovely stores, not for “parts” but for pretty things, fluffy things, soft things. Things like dresses, sweaters, ribbons, shoes, jewelry.
I can just imagine that they received phone calls like this:
“Good morning, Mrs. Smith. It’s Mrs. Jones calling from La Petite Salon, calling to tell you that we just received some of those sweaters you and your daughter wear so well. I’ve set aside several in your sizes and colors. I hope to see you both very soon. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
A typical message for me would be:
“Sallie. Beastie’s parts are in. Call me.”
That call would be from Gary, our Volvo mechanic/doctor. No need for him to identify himself. We were long past that. No need to leave his phone number, either. He was on speed dial. And Beastie, (we had to name them…you couldn’t just say The Volvo), the oldest of the tribe, was always in dire need of “parts.” In fact, they all needed “parts.” Oily, dirty, mysterious, and, expensive, “parts.”
Nothing was ever set aside for me, unless it was “parts.” Sometimes from the Napa store. Sometimes from the Volvo people. The UPS man delivered “parts.” Same for FedEx. “Parts.” Always “parts.” No money or time left over for “pretty.”
Oil and lube changes filled our week-end hours. Revolving the tires on one or more of the old Volvos was always a special treat. At least for the car. Heating cores were treasured as were brake pads and transmissions.
So, now I understand everything. I never knew “pretty” from “parts.” It’s good to put blame squarely where it belongs. It eases the angst. And explains my wardrobe. Or lack thereof.