||[Nov. 17th, 2007|06:27 am]
I hardly ever go out with my dad anymore. He's too busy working, and I'm too busy working. Last night, we finally got the chance to go out to eat (Chinese food, of course. The China House employees know my family by name).
Now, my dad is a mechanic, so he likes cars. A lot. But he loves his truck, too. I get on him a lot for owning something so dangerous to the environment, a big diesel-powered pick-up, but he just doesn't seem to give up on it (I have to wonder whether he loves his motorcycle, a special edition Harley Davidson sportster, or his truck more).
We're about to leave, and we're getting into the truck. I climb into the passenger seat, and I look up...and there are two hand prints on the windshield.
I tried to come up with several solutions, other than the obvious one, of why two hand prints, shoulder length apart, would be on the windshield in the passenger seat of my dad's car. I thought about it, and I thought about it, but what I came up with was just too exaggerated.
So, there I sat, with every other explanation ruled out, knowing that I'm sitting in the exact same place where my mom and my dad were...you get the point. I don't want to include that in a sentence so close together with my mom and dad.