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Cover your ears Christy13, this is going to hurt, baby

It had to happen.

It’s not easy for a relationship to be so perfect for eternity. Some might think damn well impossible. But it’s finally happened.

The magic is over.

I can’t go on with this charade any more.

I am no longer in love with my Monte.

We’ve had a good run’ two and a half years. And honestly, I felt about Ms. Monte the way that I felt the first time I owned a car, the Monza, when I turned 18. Actually, they are very similar’ both had low seats that hugged my curves, both had decent stereos and speakers that thumped, both were vaguely shaped like anal probes.

But now, driving amongst all the sleek European models in Atlanta, realizing that my car is also a Nascar car, driven by some tobacco-chewing nimrod, plastered with Tide symbols or something’. Now’ it’s just complete disillusionment. I realized that when sitting in the parking lot of Nordstrom that there was not ONE single Monte Carlo or its bastard cousin the Lumina sitting in the lot. Just mine. I glanced over at Walmart. There, nestled amidst the errant carts and the screaming kool-aid lipped children were scores upon scores of GM’s sporty line.

And as God as my witness, there was a white Monte Carlo, complete with trunk spoiler, with a gigantic #3 in the back windshield.

I only wish I were making that up!

You go through that new phase, that honeymoon-like period where every little quirk and flaw is cute and adorable and just makes you more in love. Awww’ isn’t it precious the way that the doors swing out four feet when you open the car door and it bangs into the car next to you unless you’re parked in an open field! Then there’s the ‘living with’ phase. Sure, there are some flaws, some problems, but hey, look at the sleek styling, the way it goes from zero to 65 in seven seconds. Then you start to see dings in the paint. There is a rust spot, a factory defect, on the rear window casement. It drives me berserck. I haven’t gotten it fixed because I’m arguing with Chevy that they should fix it under the warranty. They’re saying that it’s normal rust. I’m saying that if my bottom panels, which have salt and road wear, haven’t got a spot of rust, then it is reasonable to expect that this little spot above the little backseat window, a spot reasonably protected, shouldn’t have bubbling paint and obviously it’s a problem with the metal. Anyway, it’s like Chevy is the rude family who won’t leave you alone and borrows money from you.

I went out to run some errands this afternoon but it felt like I was just pretending. The magic is gone. I can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to the Monte and it’s not fair to me.

I informed Esteban that I needed a new car. He laughed at me. He’s been telling me that he hates the car almost since I bought it. Of course, he wants me to get a Pontiac Grand Prix. I’m not going to be lulled into a false sense of coolness again. I feel like I’ve been walking around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe and no one told me. I won’t be tempted with another Nascar car. I want something European. Preferably black or silver, the color of my ass pearls. I’m all about matching.

I’m thinking about a Volvo. I grew up with Volvos. My drunken mama owned several in her time as a hippy whole earth person. But that was before anyone had ever heard of Volvos up here in Green Bay. They had no idea what to make of the strangely shaped sedans and station wagons that dropped us off at school each day. I jokingly referred to our white Volvo station wagon (with black tinted windows) as ‘The WASP Hearse’. But then I usually had to explain what WASP meant, since my friends would scratch their heads and usually say that it wasn’t yellow. I really do love Volvos, but I also want a sporty quality too, and the Volvo just says, ‘I wear comfortable but expensive shoes and have a Masters degree’. I want something that says ‘I’m smart and fun and like to drive fast while blasting the Sex Pistols and drinking too much caffeine on my way to read at a poetry slam but I also like Martha Stewart, buy my makeup in department stores, and have been known to vote for Republican political candidates on occasion.’

But then I’ve also been tempted by the Saab. They are cute. However, I did just this weekend have a conversation with Esteban in which I determined that I would probably give a stranger oral gratification for a brand new Jaguar. This brought up an entire moral debate about whether or not oral sex is actually sex (because believe it or not, we never discussed it with the Clinton thing) and whether or not it made me a whore, albeit a really really expensive whore. I admitted that it would have to be the DECKED OUT Jag, not the stripped model but I’d still do it, as long as I was horribly not attracted to the person, and I’d have to see the car sitting there, ready to be signed over to me. And it would have to be tax-free. And have a sweet stereo system. With a CD player. And I’d only do it once. Esteban stated that he wouldn’t no matter what. I don’t believe him.

So I’m not ruling out a Jag. But most likely, it will be Swedish. Or a Benz. I’ve always felt that if I wrote the killer novel that Oprah decided to use as her book club and Spielberg decided to make as a movie, I’d own a white Jag for my summer car and a black Mercedes for my winter car. But I’m not, and I haven’t, and Oprah’s not sending me an email about this here diary, so I think that’s pretty far out of the question. Besides, that little fantasy also entails a home in a gated community and a househusband who caters to my every whim.

But now, to live with my car for another year. But realize this’ I’ve called my lawyer and the papers are being drawn up.


This is just post-vacation letdown, I’m certain.

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