I am persistent. “But how can you say your team bleeds red when we all bleed red?”
“Mom, no-one says they bleed red.”
I am losing badly by this point. It’s time to switch tactics.
“Well since you have your new sweatshirt on, everyone will see it and you can talk about being at the game.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
This conversation is dying a quick death. We ride along for a few minutes in silence and finally she says, “Hey, did you bring that liquidy thing for Lou?”
Lou is my favorite mechanic in the entire universe. Owner of American Lube, he is one of those guys who, when you call him, he can almost always tell what is wrong with your car by the sounds you make. Trust me, he is a genius, as my repertoire is very limited, and he seems well versed in humans who make lousy sounds imitating ailing vehicles. He had left a bottle of some liquid in my car last week and I promised to drop it off this morning.
“Yep, it’s in the backseat in a bag. Since when are you interested in the car?”
“I am trying to stop talking about inane things.” (Yes, she did use the word “inane.”)
I thought I had finally found something intelligent to say:
“So talking about engine fluid is deep?”
By now she is completely ignoring me, putting her earphones in, the music beginning to blast away. Nothing, of course, that I recognized. Besides, we had arrived at school and she seemed quite happy to get out. We said good-bye and I began the twenty-minute drive home.
Today, the drive took an hour. With nothing better to do, I began to construct this piece in my head. Unfortunately, I was so engrossed in my thoughts I missed the turn for Lou’s and had to backtrack, which added an extra 40 minutes to the trip.
Feeling really disgusted with my inattention, I walk in the front door, and there on the floor I see a pair of bright purple gloves. Now where did they come from?
You guessed it—fodder for a new inquisition.