Stranded at the Drive-In

Well, my mother urged me to return to my parent's house and graciously gave me permission to borrow my car, which my father had borrowed to go 'skiing' in Breckenridge. He would be home by six-thirty, she said, Come home, I miss you.
At six-thirty, I am downtown. By my best speculations, at seven-thirty I will once again be downtown, or rather, I would have been, I should have been.
But my father, the illustrious professor of Architectural Engineering, has not returned. Upon answering his cell phone, he informed me that his visit to Breckenridge just took 'a little bit longer than he had expected' because he was 'visiting his old TA Craig'. Not skiing.
My speculation, after hearing both stories, is that he went skiing with his new TA, some blonde stringy grad student who probably either admires my father or wants a good letter of recommendation, or possibly both, although that seems unlikely. She has been around the house occasionally, and my mother even invited her over for dinner a couple of weeks ago, much to my dismay.
So my father took my teetering-on-brink-of-death car to Breckenridge with his girlfriend, and won't be home until 9. My mother is playing tennis. And I am stranded at home with the truth and no one to tell it to.