I haven’t had any brushes with the law, but while trying to have my son’s car repaired I felt like I was under interrogation. The clerk at the service desk appeared to be a genital soul. He was probably 15 years my senior with short cropped grayish back hair and slow movements. He greeted me with a warm hello then the interrogation began.
Clerk: “What year is the car?”
Me: “Oooo, I don’t know, old.” I searched my purse for the car registration; three or four of them tumbled onto the counter. I had registrations to everyone’s car- mine, my moms, and finally my sons.
The clerk waited patiently for my response.
Me: “Here is, it’s a 1994 Buick,” I said with accomplishment in my voice.
I guess that wasn’t enough information for the clerk.
Clerk: “What type of Buick?”
Me: “Hmmm, it’s a four door. I don’t think it’s a Regal.”
Was I really supposed to know all of this information? You may not be able to tell, but I’m not car savvy (I CAN check my oil and tire pressure, but that’s it).
The couple of times I’ve been in the car with my son, I could barely see out of the passenger window. There is plastic covering the window to keep out the cold air that seeps through the window that doesn’t go up all the way. All I can say is, it’s a first car.
With a slight smile, the clerk hit me with another question.
Clerk: “Do you know the color of the car?”
By now I guess the clerk thought I was a real idiot.
Me: “YES,” finally a question I could answer. “It’s burgundy.”
When my son returned from moving the car, I asked him what the model of his car.
“It’s a Regal,” he said without hesitation.
“Oh, that’s what I said the car was not.”
In my spare time, I may take an auto mechanics class.
Have you ever felt under interrogation as a parent?