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.

 

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