This worked great for awhile, until one sunny day in May 1993 and we were rear ended by a car traveling at 80 km/hour on the Oak Street Bridge and the car was totalled.
John has never lost the level at which he loves to care for his cars, often sternly reminding me to clean the car when it's dirty, or how it needs to be washed, have the oil changed, and be kept in good shape. He's taught me to park in the farthest spots in the parking lots, and do my best to avoid door dings on the ferry. This works great most of the time, but after the car was attacked by a rogue shopping cart December 2011 and then by some silly driver while we waited in line at BC Ferries, we are starting to give up. It seems like no matter what we do, the car is constantly being riddled with dings in the doors.
He announces every new find to me, which induces a bit of panic while I try to remember what I did wrong-did I park near a truck? Close to where the carts are put away? Did someone allow a cart to get away from them again?
"Honey, there's a new ding in the car again," he gravely informed me yesterday. "Passenger's side, in the back."
I heaved a sigh of resignation because I know that while I haven't done anything wrong, I always feel guilty, as if any dent or scratch is completely my fault. The car must have a good sized one for him to mention it, so I went out to check out the damage.
The door is as smooth as a baby's bottom, with not a dent or ding in sight.
"Uh, honey? Where is it?"
"Just a minute, let me find it....." he bent down and scrutinized the door with laser like precision, finally pointing out a spot on the door.
"There's nothing there," I protested.
"Yes there is," he insisted.
Can you see it? Neither can I-because there IS NO ding, except possibly one that is so incredibly small that it's not even worth mentioning.
The stupid thing? After I snapped that photo I turned to go and happened to glance at my windshield, where I saw THIS: