Ever since they tore up a nearby road in preparation for repaving, my dad's become an over-zealous navigator; even on undisturbed roads, he veers to miss manhole covers that he's never bothered to miss before. This results in an innards sloshing that's more disturbing than hitting the small depression would have been.
He also drives the sedan as if it has no turning radius, pulling right before a big arc to the left to park, what I've recently dubbed the Question Mark Jerk. I commented on it today, but my cadence was off, so it sounded like I was calling him a jerk as he turned the engine off.
"Not you, the action. A Question-Mark-Jerk... for how you pull in to park." I was waving my arms in a violent imitation of turning the steering wheel that was actually a desperate attempt to rewind the last few moments. In restored good humor, we walked to the faux 50s diner; instead of a question mark, he joked, it was more of "a circle jerk."
Knowing this came from a man who refers to violence on television as pornographic, I glanced back at him fairly certain he had no idea what it meant while vaguely wondering if it had some other meaning, and said, "Um, no," authoritatively, but without explanation.