My squeaky life...

I’m taking mental inventory of all things squeaky in my possession and it’s turning in to quite a list. Both cars, the dryer, the chairs in my dining room, the boys’ bunk bed. There was even one potential buyer of our home who was sure to let us know there was one squeaky board on our deck. I’m thinking of purchasing WD-40 by the case. Sam’s Club surely sells that.

All school year, Richard has had the privilege of driving my car. Yes, it’s my car because I picked it out and paid for it. Well, he helped with that last part. But still…my car! The reason he drives my car is because it’s big enough to haul six youngsters for carpool to and from school. And, since he’s the teacher already going to school, he drives the carpool. Great. So, what do I get to drive? His car. Huhh…..yeah. His car is fine and all, but it squeaks. Every time the car stops it gives off this nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that evidently even the best minds in Southwest Missouri brake care cannot figure out. I’ve calculated that it happens right as I hit the 3 MPH mark and does not relent until I’ve reached a complete halt. This is especially noticeable at places like….the drive-thru window, the bank, pulling up to a friend’s house. Totally cool.

That’s bad enough, but now MY car also squeaks. But, it only happens when I’m making a slow, sharp turn. Richard declares it’s the tire rubber on the road. Why would it be the rubber on the road? No other cars have this problem. And, I’m only going a snail’s pace when it happens. It’s not like I’m pulling a Mario Andretti in the McDonald’s drive thru. The only response I get from him on this rebuttal is that only a person of my advancing age would conjure Mario Andretti—a man who has probably not driven a race car in at least a couple of decades.

It reminds me of my first car…the 1988 Honda Accord that Dad bought for $500 from some guy up the street. I loved it. I hated it. I loved everything but the first 15 seconds after I started it up. I’d park as far away from everything as I could in the high school parking lot. Then, when it was time to fire her up, I’d suddenly HAVE to tie my shoe or clean something up off the floorboard. I’d hide there, ducked down in my shameful pose until the squealing stopped. Again, totally cool.

One of these days I’ll have saved up to buy Richard a new car that I can drive. Requirement number one? It must be completely silent. Perhaps a battery-operated hover-car. Or maybe one of those human transport backpacks coming from New Zealand. Now, THAT would be totally cool.