From all outward appearances, I look like an adult. Seriously, I think I pull the charade off very well. I have many bits of plastic that tell the world that I am trustworthy with money. I own a house. I manage to keep it clean, or at least do my half (if not more) of the housework, with a modicum of success. I have sex. Responsible safe monogamous sex. I go to the doctor and have her look at my adult woman parts every year, even though it’s a horrible thing that makes me want to hide in a closet. I share my toys. I play well with others, or at least that’s what it says on my yearly performance appraisal. I have a job that pays more than my age. I have insurance on my car and am considered by the Powers That Be to be a safe driver. You should hear me order my drink at Starbucks. It’s forceful, decisive, authoritative even. And if you don’t listen too closely, you might even believe I’m ordering something other than hi-octane hot chocolate.
And yet.
The other day while floating in the pool, abjectly not wearing sunscreen and trying not to think of the growing vault of voice mails undoubtedly blinking madly away, a telltale heart of my every waking day, I did some calculations of what I know needs to be fixed on the Monte Carlo. It needs the 100000 mile tune up. Actually, it needed it 24,000 miles ago, but it still moves and therefore, the matter didn’t really seem that pressing until I realized that I’m about to roll another decade of miles and maybe my sparkplugs have withered away to the size of unbent paper clips and it will possibly explode in some sort of glorious haze as though it had been hit from above by a large battleship posing as a moon. Because when bad things happen, it just feels right if they fit nicely into the plot of an action movie. Also, I’ve needed the front end aligned since I slid sideways into a curb sometime in the winter. Driving around with a skewed suspension has probably killed my big fat $100 a piece tires, so I might need two or four of those. That’s iffy, though. The transmission needs to be flushed. And then there’s the spot of rusty melanoma by the rear window that is a factory defect GM won’t own up to. And also the ping on the passenger door when I opened it in the garage and hit the side of a cpu. And then the dented front deck when a pick up truck stopped short in the rain and I slid into the back of him. And now, the front seat that Esteban broke last year and replaced with something he found in a wrecked Monte? Is broke in a different spot.
But the clincher?
The radio has stopped working. The radio.
This, of course, is karma. Or carma. The radio in Esteban’s truck has been fizzling out for the last year, but he doesn’t want to spend the money to get it replaced. I’ve offered to add it to the budget, but he resists. And then he’ll get worked up to replace it and back away when I ask him to wait until he gets paid so that he doesn’t end up borrowing money from me. One day, he mused ‘Just how long would YOU put up with a broken radio?’ My answer ‘How long does it take to drive to the stereo place?’
So, after adding all of the little problems which are plaguing the Monte currently as well as the miscellaneous mystery ailments that are certainly yet to come, we’ve decided that it is time to replace the car. Of course, we can’t get the car I WANT to get. I want a brand new Lincoln LS. Sadly, I could probably swing it, but not also go to school. Thus’ some other lesser car will have to do.
I test drove a Jaguar S class a few weeks ago. It was beautiful, like God’s concept of an automobile. Silver exterior, leather interior (the only problem was that it was BEIGE’ blech), power everything, moon roof, rocking sound system, and a purr that you wouldn’t believe. And an unbelievable deal, especially when you consider all of the added snobbery that came with it for free. I, of course, was starry-eyed. I even decided what I would call the Jag should it be mine, since ‘my Jaguar’ is so ‘my summer home in the Hamptons’ or ‘my sugar daddy’ or “my federal indictment”. The car would simply be known as ‘The Kitty’. Because that is what it would be. My little pretty kitty.
Sigh.
It was too expensive for Esteban’s taste. Once again, if you took graduate school out of the picture, it wasn’t a big deal, but then that left me exchanging my life’s dreams for a shiny automobile that made my heart race. And that had a beige interior.
I also tested an Intrepid. It was about the same as the Monte, which left me cold. I mean, why go through all of this if I’m just going to get the same vehicle with 4 doors and no moon roof? I want the moon roof! If I’m going to have another car payment, I have to get a moon roof out of the deal! And even so, I refuse to budge on the size of the engine (3.4 L is bare minimum) and leather seats. Why go down in scale? It just isn’t logical.
We both liked the Chrysler 300M, except that the one I test drove had sloppy steering. And then there is also the fact that should I purchase the 300M, I have been informed that I will receive voice mails from Jake with Celine Dion simply bellowing ‘I drove all niiiiiiiiighht’..!’ for the rest of my natural life.
Esteban has dived into this full throttle. He loves shopping for cars. He loves walking around car lots. It’s one of his passions. I, however, find the process tedious. I know what I like and I really don’t want to waste my time looking at something that I know won’t make me happy. Like something with cloth seats. Or something that is blue. I don’t want to drive a blue car. I have nothing against other people driving a blue car, but my last four car purchases have been silver then white then black then white again. I’m in the mood for a silver car this time, but I could be convinced to buy another black one.
This is frustrating for Esteban. He feels that for the price he is willing to pay (read: about 5K less than the price I am willing to pay), the cars that we will be most happy with are a Pontiac Grand Prix or another Monte Carlo. My big gripe with the Monte Carlo is that when you open the doors, they have the ability to crash into anything within four feet of you. In a tight parking spot? Then you might have to get into the back seat before you can leave the vehicle. In fact, I suspect that is how the front seat was broken the second time.
Thus, now we are stale mated. The money that Esteban wants to spend gets lower and lower, while I firmly dig my feet into the ground. I know that a car is just to get you from point A to point B, but it is so much more than that. It should be fun. It should want to come out and play when I crank the Offspring on the CD Player. It should be like AOL and ask where do you want to go today? It should be ready to party all night and then go to work the next morning wearing the same clothes and smelling like sex and leather. It should try to sneak a peak down my cleavage. And most importantly, it should give me a little flutter in my stomach every time I walk outside, jingling my keys.
When I first purchased the Monte, for months I had reoccurring nightmares that someone had stolen my car. It was a bit like first love. I just couldn’t believe it was my car, that it was exactly the car I had dreamed in my head. KimVee didn’t even believe me when I told her which car I was buying, since I had given her my shopping list of the car I wanted, right down to the black leather seats. She thought I was joking, until the day I drove it up to her driveway just to prove it. And I don’t blame her. It DID seem too good to be true. I would be sitting in the leather bucket seats, the steering wheel tilted just so, and just be in awe. This. This was MY CAR. This growling she-beast of metal and Detroit hard love was my car. This long expanse of white metal was the frame through which I would get to look at the world. The world. The world was ours. And we were ready to ride. And sure, if we needed to stop and get some groceries or go to work during one of those rides, that was all good, baby, because damn, we’d be sexy just the same.
And now? Too miss out on all of that to buy some miscellaneous good buy with a cloth interior and a miniature engine and a cassette tape player, just because it is a good deal?
Bah. Good deals are for cocksmokers!
So yeah, not so much with the adult thing.
