In Part One We Learn...
I've been having car troubles. We have two cars and both are falling apart, determinedly but at a fairly slow pace, giving us all equal chances to keep up, catch car parts as we roll our legs down the street under the steering wheel. ( Mr. Curry probably shouting at someone driving past us to ' Slow Down! Where are you going that's so important you have to run over a kid to get there!? '
Blue Thunder is Mr. Curry's truck.
White Trash is my car. Now, I think I can tell you the following because we know each other better now, so you know that I am a loving, ethical and moral person, and while highly neurotic and at times extremely strange, always guiding by principles. When we first got White Trash, my lovely and sweet children ( who have shouted YAY OBAMA at the screen with me for the last year and who gaze at our President and his beautiful family on our fridge every morning, who live with our roomates who are black and who have grown up in a family/friend life of inclusion and union...) wanted to name our car .... white power.
It's hard to explain to your kids WHY you can't name a family belonging something without also putting thoughts into their head that you don't want to, thoughts about a time and history they will learn about soon enough.
Plus, it's hard to explain it when you are laughing through your nose holes.
In Part Two We Shake Our Heads So Hard Our Glasses Fly Off....
So White Trash ( as we much more classily named our car ) has been sputtering and spitting and clicking and refusing to start. Off and on. And we haven't had the money to fix it. Or find out what IT even IS. White Trash owners we have to live up to the name, and let me tell you, it's no easy feat. So far we've put one pet urine smelling couch on our side yard, and Mr. Curry spends every morning hooking up WT to a charger, which I have to unhook, close the hood and put away before taking our children to school every morning. Yup. Class every step. of. the. way.
In Part Three We Wonder If our Terribly Embarrassing Obsession with Pamela Anderson's Relationships Really And Finally Mean That We Have Sunk Too Deep....
So a few mornings, White Trash just won't start, despite Mr. Curry's pre-workplace minstrations. As much as I burp, fart, throw Coup Of Noodle containers in the trunk and
offer my kids cigs, there isn't enough White Trash to start the engine.
*disclaimer to borderline personalites: i'm not really offering my children cigarettes. it was a joke. ha. ha. ha.
When WT won't start, I have to call in the troops. Either Mr. Curry or Grandma Mary come runnin to take the kids to school- but Lola Moon is late. For a very important date.
Which Is Where We Come to the Conclusion That Our WT Heroine Is a Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Mother....
the school doesn't like this, not one little bit. And they don't care if you're car won't start likely story little missy, and to show how much they don't care, they send you a very Official and Important letter signed by THE PRINCIPAL HIMSELF stating that you cannot bring your child to school late ONE MORE TIME OR ELSE.
So there you have it. If you still like me, I'm shocked.
*but if you DO happen to still like me, can you send the principal a note and tell him he's a big meanie? i feel this is how adults handle things. anonymous hate mail.