True Confession

I don’t love my husband’s car. I feel guilty saying so because he loves it so much, but there are just so many reasons to hate it.

It is nondescript –  Even his Volvo, that turd-on-wheels money pit that didn’t start on cold/warm/rainy/dry/non-apocalyptic mornings at least had some personality. My daughter assigned our cars names. Over the years, we have had Baby-car, Brother Car, Bessie. This one is just called Car. It is so generic that it took me a year to remember what color it actually is. It’s blue. I think. It might be green, though.  And it looks so much like every other sedan that on more than one occasion, I attempted to get into someone else’s Car of an entirely different make and model.  It’s a little embarrassing when the vehicle’s owner is still sitting in the driver’s seat.

The radio is awful – Or maybe it’s so great and so fancy that it is just beyond the likes of me to appreciate it’s awesomeness. But if I hit the wrong button, the entire face plate comes off. Special. And it eats CDs. More than once, he’s been stuck listening to Josh Groban because I can’t get it to cough the disc back up. Just desserts. For both of them.

My husband has somehow managed to preset some stations, which is great. But if I forget that I am driving Car and channel surf,  I find myself with four channels to choose from. Country and conservative talk radio. Kill. Me. Now.

The power issue– Trying to accelerate enough to merge into freeway traffic is like barrel racing on a bumblebee. There’s a lot of buzzing, but not much ground gets covered.

It is low to the ground – When I am behind the wheel, I feel like I am dragging my bum-bum on the road.

It is small – There are five of us. It’s like driving a clown car.

All the controls are in the wrong place – I know that no two vehicles are exactly the same on the inside. But Car has some super mind-control power. When I borrow it even a short trip, the layout of my own dashboard is wiped cleanly out of my head. I can’t turn on my lights without kicking the windshield wipers into gear.

It hates me, too– My husband could drive the thing to Jupiter and back and never have to stop for gas. I can drive it out of our neighborhood, and the gauge drops from half-full to push-it-to-the-gas-station empty. And I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure it has tried to kill me a time or two. And the seat-belt is on the “strangle” setting.

If you don’t hear from me for a day or two, please come and look for me. My husband just might be just driving Christine.

photo courtesy of Wikipedia.


Things I Don’t Understand, Volume 2: the Automotive Edition

Having spent several hours on the road today, I had lots of time to ponder. There are things that make no sense, but I wonder if it’s just me. Here’s what I don’t get.

1) Memorial decals on cars. I see these everywhere. “In Memory of Mamma/Daddy/Grandpa,” and usually accompanied by their birth and death dates.  One reason that I am bothered by these decals is because they are a traffic hazard. When people pull up behind you and see your sticker, they can’t help see the arrival and departure dates displayed therein. You think driving and texting is bad? Try driving and trying to solve a mathematical equation to determine if the person in front of you is a poor orphan who lost their mamma way too young. It’s a recipe for disaster. Math and driving just don’t mix.

Another issue I have. Does Mamma know that you’ve dedicated something to her that is going down in value like a rock? And did you buy that 1987 Chevy Astro in Mamma’s memory? Seeing as how she only died last year, it makes me wonder about your relationship with your mom.

I promised my husband a lifetime of haunting and spiders in his cereal  if he ever thinks of dedicating a car to me when I turn up my toes. If you must make a memorial, do as he has agreed to do if I go first. Cremate the dearly departed and have the ashes made into a diamond. Then wear it as a piercing in some place tender. Because love is classy like that.

2) Truck Nuts. Seriously. I had to look these bad boys up on the internet to make sure I was referring to them by their proper nomenclature, and did I come up with a bunch of entries! One of them claimed to sell the leading balls on the internet. I afraid to ask how they came to that conclusion, but I am definitely not here to dispute it. I bet their mamma would be very proud, may she rest in peace. But the danglies are everywhere. There’s even an entry about them on wikipedia. I can’t decide if that little discovery makes me more alarmed or sad. Anyhoo. I find these appendages frankly appalling. It’s not an issue of free speech. It’s about responsibility. Please neuter your truck. Eliminate the possibility that it could spawn a litter of Ford Escorts. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you? Bob Barker would thank you. ***

3) Line cutters. You know the ones. You approach a long line of merging traffic, and they’re the folks who zoom into the next lane and attempt to merge at the last second because they don’t want to have to waste their precious time waiting in line (no anger or bitterness here). We all hate them. That’s just it. If we all hate “them,” then “they” can’t be any of us, right? So who are “they? Humanoids in SUVs? Complete figments of our collective imaginations? I have no answer.

That’s it for this week’s ponderings. What automotive mysteries keep you awake at night?

*** Little known fact: none of the cars ever won by contestants on “Price is Right” went home before it was neutered.