The Other Woman is a Volkswagon

The bolt came off just as you and I knew it would. Then he got stumped by the fly wheel.  I am going to have to do some research into that.  I am clueless about a flywheel.  Guess I won’t be by the end of today.  My poor guy had a tough time of it this week though.  Our adult children have started coming home.  Yes, the terror of every father has arrived.  The adult daughter and her truck loads of stuff she thinks is going into her fathers garage.  There he stood, like a valkarie, you could almost read the words, ,you shall not pass, on his lips.  Her stuff is piled up in the garage.  What man can resist the phrase ,But Daddy, what am I supposed to do?,. His years of experience at FedEx training people to load trucks came in quite handy, his precious tool bench, bug body and bug engine on a board have plenty of space and his precious little girl is happy once again. What was I doing?  Cleaning the mess those two make. What pigs.  I was told that Sunday was to be our day this week.  We were going out for a good time.  I was getting pretty excited thinking we would ride the Bay Link into the City, maybe get tickets to Dinner Theatre in Folsom.  No, nothing like that, nothing cultured or refined, nothing air conditioned or clean. You know where this man it taking me?  The freaking races.  Yes, ladies, more cars. Well, I am still one of the luckiest women on earth.  The other woman in my relationship is a bucket of bolts.

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