[Part 3 of a 3-part series: “My Dad, Me, & Honda Brakes]
I have to get back to some girly subjects and feed my inner FuchsiaWoman. But since I was in a rant mood yesterday with a blog about another member of my Icky Men’s Club—I guess I may as well finish off this topic—which also involves icky.
Let’s see…where was I?
Oh yeah, back to my departure from Orange County. I was on a mission to replace the worn-out brakes on my Dad’s Honda before I had to catch a plane in the afternoon.
By the time I finished running errands and had procured my Dad’s car to myself, I had about ninety minutes to find a mechanic, drop the car off, get driven back to my Dad’s, call a taxi, and get to the airport.
First I cruised Jamboree (a main thoroughfare in the Newport Beach area). Didn’t see an auto repair place. Same with MacArthur Boulevard. Then I drove down Pacific Coast Highway to Corona del Mar. I spotted a 76 Gas Station with a car repair sign. Eureka!
I spoke to a smooth-talking fake-friendly guy named Arnie, who said he was a certified Honda mechanic. He said he would do a free consultation and let me know what the status was on the brakes. I said fine. One of the other mechanics drove me back to my Dad’s house. Later Arnie called and said the brakes were shot. He quoted a cost of $220 each for new genuine Honda parts and that he could have the work done by the end of the afternoon.
I said fine to Arnie as this meant that the next time my Dad got in his car the brakes would work correctly. In case you haven’t read Parts 1 & 2, my Dad is an octogenarian who’s not as sharp as he used to be.
I frankly didn’t care how much the brakes cost because how do you put a price on your own safety or the safety of others? When you need repairs done immediately because you have procrastinated and/or ignored a potentially dangerous situation, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet pay more to solve your problem—even if the guy is ripping you off.
My Dad didn’t see it that way. He said the brakes weren’t that bad. When I told him he had to pay $880 for new ones, he threw a nasty fit.
He said he didn’t have the money. Not true. The day before I had looked at his bank statement. The checking account was around $15,000. (His monthly retirement income is more than his expenses. I prepare his taxes.)
He said I didn’t have the right to make the decision about spending HIS money.
Oh really?
The last time I visited, my Dad hit me with an $11,000 bill to help pay for roof repairs (a special assessment from his Home Owners Association). He did not ask me if I could afford it (which I couldn’t). He said he had paid off my brother’s $13,000 credit card debt and didn’t have the money. (Again not true.) He said if I didn’t help pay for the roof, there “won’t be a house to inherit.”
Later during that visit, my Dad asked me to mail a card to his “girlfriend” (a woman who comes around once a year or so and what—hits him up for money?) He didn’t seal the envelope. I looked at the card. He had enclosed a check for $1,000.
This time when I visited, my Dad hit me with a $4,500 property tax bill saying he couldn’t afford it. (Once again, not true.) He said if I didn’t pay this bill then there “won’t be a house to inherit.” Oh brother. Does he practice that phrase?
He didn’t ask me if I could afford it. (I can’t.) He just said, “You have to pay it.”
So when my Dad said I had no right to authorize $880 of HIS money to pay for brakes—so he wouldn’t kill himself or others—I disagreed.
I said, “Fine. I’ll pay for the brakes and you can have back the property tax bill.”
[Keep in mind, in order for my Dad to be heard, you have to YELL.]
He kept yelling he wasn’t going to pay for new brakes.
I kept saying loudly, “Pick one. The brakes or the taxes.”
Then he yelled really snotty like, “The next time you come down you’re not allowed to drive my car!”
I started laughing. Another visit? Are you kidding me? I told my Dad I was never coming back. He looked shocked and asked, “Why not?”I told him he was too hard to get along with. He looked shocked again.
In the middle of this family ruckus, a realtor showed up who was supposed to talk to me about the house. He brought his wife. Bad timing. Then my brother showed up. Then the taxi driver. It was a scene.
I yanked my suitcases down the driveway. I couldn’t wait to get the heck out of there.
(I will save my Dad’s parting shot for another blog…)
After I got home, my brother said he talked to my good pal, Arnie, the 76 Station mechanic, and got the price reduced to $530. Then my Dad yelled and got the price reduced to $400. (I’m sure Arnie regretted ever talking to me in the first place! Too bad…)
My brother’s comment about the whole ordeal was that the brakes cost too much and the chance that my Dad might have gotten into an accident was slim, and therefore, my Dad could have driven the car for a while longer.
I told my brother the whole point of the argument was NOT the cost of brakes. It was the cost of life and limbs.
I still think I did the RIGHT thing in this situation given the time frame, my Dad’s cheapness, his stubbornness, and age-impaired driving abilities.
The fact that my Dad thinks I’m the enemy—trying to rip him off—is revolting.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t know who those people are that claim to be my “parents”—but we can’t possibly share the same DNA.
Part 1:
http://fuchsiawoman.com/blog/relate/father-daughter-bad-relationship-story/
Part 2:
http://fuchsiawoman.com/blog/relate/father-daughter-relationships-the-ties-that-strangle/
