My dad, a man whose driving skills peaked in the 1980s, decided he needed a “sweet ride.” He’d been eyeing a bright-pink, ridiculously oversized, low-rider convertible. Think flamingo meets monster truck. He called it “The Pink Panther.” I, of course, was horrified.
“Dad,” I pleaded, “It’s…loud. And pink. And it looks like it’s about to swallow a small car whole.”
He chuckled, a sound like gravel gargling. “Nonsense, my dear! She’s a beauty. A classic! Just needs a little… personality.” The ‘personality’ consisted of a fluffy dice hanging from the rearview mirror, a disco ball dangling from the antenna, and airbrushed flames that looked suspiciously like badly-drawn squiggles.
The first drive was…an experience. The low-rider bounced alarmingly on every bump, the stereo blared eighties hair metal at a volume that could shatter glass, and Dad, ever the showman, wore a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses indoors.
We went to pick up Grandma Millie from her bingo night. Grandma, bless her cotton socks, looked at “The Pink Panther” with a mixture of awe and terror. “Oh my,” she whispered, adjusting her floral hat. “This is…spirited.”
As Dad swerved wildly to avoid a squirrel, almost clipping a fire hydrant, Grandma shrieked, “For goodness sake, Harold! Are we going to make it to my bingo prize ceremony?”
Dad, beaming, gripped the ridiculously large steering wheel. “Don’t you worry, Millie! We’ll be there… eventually!”
The punchline? We made it, but only after Dad accidentally entered a low-rider car show, won first prize for “Most Outrageous Paint Job,” and had to spend the rest of the evening accepting congratulations from a crowd of equally flamboyant car enthusiasts. Apparently, my dad’s “nightmare” was someone else’s “sweet ride” after all.
