Morgan Flies Home from Pensacola...

Morgan flew home from Pensacola.  Should have been simple.  Cheap flight: Pensacola to Atlanta to Phoenix.  Clayton and I drive up to Gilbert, bring the sofa Jack wanted in the back of the suburban and play with the grandkids until Morgan's flight comes in at 10pm.  It's late but not bad.  Then we find out Jack doesn't want the sofa anymore (new roommate has one).  Oh well, we just leave it in the car.  Then Morgan calls about 4pm to tell us he is at the airport in Pensacola but the plane he is about to take is 25 minutes late and he has only 30 minutes between that leg and the plane from Atlanta to Phoenix.  Needless to say, he called from Atlanta to say he missed the connection and would call again to tell us what the new arrangements would be.  This turned out to be overnight at a hotel in Atlanta and a 10am flight next day to Phoenix.  I had him go back and negotiate a flight into Tucson so we wouldn't have to drive back up the next day.  All good, right?  So Wednesday I have art class.  Clayton will pick Morgan up at 2:20pm.  I say, "I will take the suburban so you can have the truck."  My honey says, "I'm going to take the Malibu."  I say, concern rising in my voice, "But the Malibu has been having problems and it's not very dependable."  He says, "I fixed that.  It will be fine."  I say, "Why don't you run it in town on errands first.  I am taking the suburban.  You take the truck."  Honey doesn't reply.  I know where this is going.  You know where this is going.  45 minutes into art class, Morgan calls.  "Mom, dad is delayed.  Please come pick me up."  Mom inquires, "Where is he?"  Morgan, "About a mile from the airport."  So I quickly pack up all my pastels and head for the airport.  After I pick Morgan up, we head for the QT mart.  Clayton is smiling, happy to see us.  I am not.  Clayton has replaced something on the battery connection and jumps the Malibu.  Repeatedly.  We call Sam, in Pensacola, to get him (only one with a smart phone and a computer right now) to look up a tow service.  Turns out it's the starter, not the battery connection.  I don't know what the tow from the airport to the northwest side cost.  The important thing is, Clayton tells me, we would never have found out it was the starter if he hadn't driven the Malibu in 100+ degrees on the freeway to the airport.  Really?  Even though Sam had told over and over that the Malibu had intermittent starting problems months ago.  Can you tell I'm still a little miffed?  Oh?  The sofa?  It went to Goodwill.