I Desire to Reason With God

For a few days now, I've been searching for just the right metaphor to express the unique brand of suck my life has cloaked itself in like some tacky-ass, leopard-patterned Slanket -- and today, at long last, I think I've found it:



Not only does it crest the hump of no-longer-funny-tude and come sliding ludicrously down the other side, but it is also presented in mirror-image, black and white, and German! Seriously, you'd need grainy video footage of Hitler dry-humping Linda Tripp in a Carmen Miranda hat (either of them, or both, it doesn't matter) to trump that kind of surrealist trifecta. Unless (since I appear to be caught up in some sort of '90s-cum-Deutschlandic revolving door, I figure I might as well tuck and run) it could be beat by Linda Tripp and Monica Lewinsky in a festival of boobs.

Anyway, now that you've got all manner of appropriately disturbing mental images to choose from, let me introduce you to the most-recently naturalized citizen of the United States of EGE's Suckitude:

I just got sacked.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen (and whatever other motley creatures out there might find these sorts of disturbed ramblings amusing), my Lady -- the one who has employed me for ten years; the one who has been literally out of her mind since mid-November; the one I took care of for 120 hours straight back then before her Doctor told me to bring her in, 120 hours that cost me the opportunity to say goodbye to my dying mother; and the one whose affairs I have been managing ever since (in close counsel with her psychiatrist and attorney) -- has accused me of having her committed against her will, taking advantage of her generosity, and abusing my position as her Power of Attorney.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Oh, except for this*:



On which more tomorrow...


*OK, fine. I wasn't going to warn you that this video is not appropriate for work or children, and maybe the still image was enough to clue you in, but my stick-up-her-ass conscience got the better of me. I'm putting it in a footnote, though, because my SUHA conscience would still like to think of herself as more Jessica Rabbit than Jiminy Cricket, if it's all the same to you.

More or Less Bunk, Part VI: The Bloom is Off

Nobody guessed the song I named Rose after, which means I gotta fess up to it myself. So, fine.... 

It was Poison, okay? A sensitive, hair-band ballad by Brett “Rock of Love Bus” Michaels about how it feels to have your heart broke by a stripper – and you really gotta feel for the bastard, because who could’ve seen that coming? – by the name of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” The song's named that, I mean, not Brett's ex-stripper. I don’t know what the ex-stripper's called herself. Maybe Kandi Kane or Crystal Chandelier or something, but I'd take bets she didn't call herself Rose Thorn. Rose Thorn is a drag queen name, if anything. Anyway, the point is that the moniker called out to me because, like I said, the moss-colored Camry is my car now, so no matter how sweet she may be smelling, you know that she'll turn out to be a prick.

Since you people didn't guess it, though, and made me say the words "Brett Michaels" right out loud, then you’re not getting this wrap-up post in verse. Which is too bad, really. I’m quite good at it, as some of you know. But ah, well. We’ll find some other excuse for me to break out the rhyming dictionary soon enough, but in the meantime you’ll have to turn on your radios and settle for some other sad, sad cowboy song.

And so, without further ado: the conclusion!

When we were redoing our kitchen, there was much discussion about where the refrigerator ought to go. And when you picture this “discussion” (don't worry, I know you try to mentally picture everything I describe; it's okay, so long as you don't try to picture me writing it in my hooded sweatshirt and flannel pyjama bottoms with the newly-minted trap door where I caught them on a nail) just imagine me saying it should stay right where it was, Johnny saying it should go by the door, and then repeat, until I realize I don’t give a holy hoo where the refrigerator goes and I give in. I know we’re never going to build the damn breakfast nook he thinks he’s making room for, so why not throw him a refrigerator-bone?

It was a decision that had to be made, you see, because everybody said the fridge-plug ought to be on its own circuit. Hasn’t ever been before and nothing untoward happened, but this time we were determined to Do It Right. Don’t burn the house down, that's my motto. Not by mistake, anyway, before you have a chance to get the critters out. So Andy – who was doing the wiring for us because he got a DUI and lost his license and with it his job so he was trying to quit drinking and needed something to keep the devil from his idle hands – ran the dedicated circuit for the fridge-plug by the door. We didn't actually move it yet, though. The plan was for it to stay where it was until the rest of the room was finished, at which point Johnny would strip and varnish half the floor on one day, then move the fridge and do the other half the next.

Instead what happened was that Johnny did the whole floor in one day around the fridge, then decided he liked it right where it was. I actually fought with him about this for a while, until I remembered it was what I wanted in the first place. Sort of. I mean, I didn't want a three-foot square of unfinished old floor underneath it, or a dedicated-circuit outlet over by the door and not-one where the fridge actually is. But now everybody says the circuit thing doesn’t matter. I may be imagining it, but I’m starting to suspect that everybody’s full of shit.

So why am I telling you this story about my kitchen when I'm supposed to be wrapping up a six-parter about the car? Because I want to know if I'm the only one who smells a pattern...

See, when we got the New Car – sorry, when we got Rose – Johnny assumed we’d sell Chuck (TFT). He thought we could probably get $300 for him, which may not be much but it's hell of a lot more than nothing, yet I resisted. We’d just had Chuck inspected and insured, I reasoned, so he wouldn’t cost us anything for another year -- especially if we just let him sit idle in the driveway like a symbol of the white-trash status we've achieved. I know that seems more like something Johnny would argue for, I'm usually the one trying to get rid of his old crap, but it was very hard on me these past few months (or seven), having to be all kinds of Maudlin places and never knowing if I'd get there till I actually arrived. Since we still had him anyway, I wanted to keep Chuck (TFT) as a spare car, within reach for just a while, at least till my agita settled down.

I won that one. Pretty easily, too. I guess it was a bit of a hollow victory, considering Johnny’s Collyer-brother tendencies and how much I have always hated Chuck. But still, Johnny and I have been together thirteen years: anytime I get what I want without a struggle, I consider it a victory well won. Or at least I did, until I overheard Johnny on the telephone soon after, very clearly giving Chuck away. To Andy.

I'll wait here while you go ahead and scroll back up, make sure you’re remembering things right. Go ahead, it's okay, take your time...

Are you back? Did you find it? Where I said “Andy got a DUI and lost his license”? Yeah.

I started hooting and hollering over Johnny's shoulder, saying I was sorry, Andy, but we'd decided we were keeping The Fucking Truck! Johnny ran out of the room and hung up before Andy could hear what I said. At which point what I said was "What the fuck?"

Well, it turns out Johnny owes Andy money – which I knew about but totally forgot. Last year, when Johnny's brother died, Andy reached into his wallet and handed him $300 for the trip back home. We didn’t ask for it – in fact, as I remember, we didn’t even really need it in the first place – but sympathetic gestures at times like that can be hard, and Andy was just trying to show he cared. It’s shitty that we took this long to pay him back. There’s no excuse. We just forgot. Or I did. I think Johnny probably thought we didn’t have it. Which, I mean, we don’t. Not in the sense of random $300s just lying around waiting to be spoken for. But Andy’s a friend, we owe it to him, and so yes, the money’s there.

At first I wanted to cut Andy a check right then and there. But the agita was fading, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized (don't tell Johnny) that his plan made better sense. It would have been nice if he’d consulted me, but still. We don’t have piles of $300s lying around, and The New Car – ROSE! – has well begun to prove her mettle. Besides, it really is kind of dumb to keep a second car around for just-in-case. And what the hell ever gave me the idea that if good old reliable Rose was under the weather, punk-ass Chuck (TFT) would come through?

So we left a message for Andy saying it was up to him. I still don’t know why he’d want a car he’s not allowed to operate - he might actually prefer to get the cash – but if he wants Chuck (TFT), then he can have him.

Since it’s just me & Rose now, though, I’m determined to look after her and treat her right. According to the experts, she’s the best car I’ve ever owned, and if I want to keep her in fighting shape I’m going to have to do all the maintenance-y sorts of things I never do. Oil changes. Tune ups. Tire pressure kept at what the book says and not just some random number roughly corresponding to my age. And car washes.

Turns out car washes aren’t just cosmetic thrill rides, they’re important. Rose spent the first twelve years of her life in warm, dry places like Arizona, New Mexico, and California – places where she didn’t see a lot of salt and snow – and that's why she looks so good for her age. Now that she’s a New Englander, it would be a crying shame for her engine to stay in good shape while her body slowly fell apart around her (not that I'd know what that feels like or anything). So last week, before I even got her oil changed, I took her to the Super Shine.

Forgot about the radio antenna. Bent it 90 degrees at the base. Now I only get three stations, and it always looks like me & Rose are going really fast.

Still waiting to hear Andy’s decision about Chuck.

More or Less Bunk, Part V: Any Other Name

...continued from the previous post... and also... spoiler alert... there just might be a contest at the end...

By New Year’s, the Camry's persistent anonymosity had crossed a line. Even my Lady – who to this day has still not made the full return from Crazy Town – kept asking if the New Car had a name. So on January 9, I bit the bullet: On the Pike, full steam ahead, radio on.

(What? We’re about to launch into a discussion of song lyrics, for crying out loud, and I’m not allowed to use a few shorthand clichés? Please. Moon! June! Spoon! Tune! Loon! So there! Don’t tell me what literary devices I can’t use. Nyeah!)

Now, you’re probably thinking this is going to be easy. You’re probably thinking that as soon as the first real-name, gender-appropriate song comes on the radio, I will be done. And you may have gotten that impression because it’s more or less exactly what I said. But it’s not true. I lied, okay? I cheat, all right? Seriously, after all these years, does that surprise you?

Hell. If old Alice (remember Alice?) didn’t tip you off to my full-of-it-ness, then what will? I mean, come on: the only way “Alice’s Restaurant” will ever be the first song you hear on the radio is if you turn the key at noontime on Thanksgiving -- and this wasn't anywhere near close to that. It was the spring, like I said, of 1990. The immediate options at my disposal were basically Greta Garbo, Ann Monroe, Dietrich or Dimaggio – and I already told you that my poo-brown Buick was a boy. A straight boy. (And please don’t go suggesting “Joe” in honor of the Yankee Clipper, because first of all, Yankee, hello! And secondly he was a Regal, not a pick-up truck, for heaven’s sake!). So I waited (and waded) through “Cherry Pie,” “Poison” and the Humpty Dance, until I made my way to the left end of the dial, where I got bored, heard “Alice,” and decided if it was good enough for Mr. Cooper it was good enough for me.

Same thing happened this time, too, except I’ve taken too long to get to this point in the story and have now forgotten all but one of the songs I heard and rejected on the Pike. That's still better than the last time: I don’t remember any of the songs from 1990 – I lied about them, too. And what I’m about to do now, you see, is cheat.

I played a little game on facebook – got people to turn on their radios and tell me what they heard, then combed through all those ideas for lady-names. I know some of you cheated – there’s just no way Patti Smith’s “Horses” was the first song on anybody’s random airwaves in 2010, even in England; plus I’m not sure if Pandora ought to count – but still. Even this was harder than it looks. I got sixteen suggestions (counting cheaters), and only managed to make two of them work.

So on the list that follows, only one of the four songs comes from that bullet-biting drive. Two come from facebook friend suggestions, and one I just made up. See if you can figure out which ones are which!

Ahem...

Bernice might have worked, if I hadn’t made a rule up on the spot that says namesakes can’t be bad guys unless they’re really, really bitchin’ antiheroes – like the Jackal, Superfly, or Leroy Brown. And I’m sorry, but some random redhead your boyfriend got caught snogging in the parking lot just doesn’t count.

Couldn’t be Abigail for two reasons: 1. I happen to care very deeply about a flesh-and-blood person named Abigail, so I wouldn’t feel right implementing the sort of verbal discipline that so often becomes necessary with a car, 2. Everybody knows Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time, and 3. (I lied again; so sue me) What is up with all these second-fiddle redheads, anyhow?

No way was I going to name her “Brandy.” A good wife she might be, but a fine girl this tea-green Camry is most definitely not.

And Sleepy Jean just sounded like a bad idea all around.

But then it happened.

Doo dee doo dooooo doo dee doo...

It's not a girl’s name as intended in the song, exactly, but it most certainly is one in real life. A trifle dusty, yes, but at least the Golden Girl it belonged to was my favorite Golden Girl. And the idea it expresses here is cynically appropriate, because no matter how sweet-smelling the New Car may be now, she is still my car...

And so you know she's gonna fuck me in the end.

Oh come on, people! You're not going to make me say it, are you? The name ought to be obvious enough by now, but if one of you kind folks out there can find it in your hearts to spare me from from having to say out loud the title of the song I named her for, I will write the final installment of this series in rhyming verse. Rhyming verse that incorporates your name -- and whatever other personal details about you that I know or am willing to make up -- in some patently witty and clever fashion.

Yes, Donna! It's a contest! An easy one, because it's been a while.

But no cheating. It's my blog. And I'm the only one who can get away with that.

More or Less Bunk, Part V: Everything’s Coming Up

continued from previous post...

Like I said very briefly last time, and then edited out because I felt it went too far over the Maudlin line, but now have to put back in because I can’t justify the New Car’s nameless month without it: the first few weeks I had her, I was in no mood for playing Radio Roulette, not even in noble pursuit of the Perfect New Car Name. Because you never know what might come screaming from the dashboard when you turn the dial (and no, my cars aren’t so old they still have dials; it's an expression! Work with me, people!), and I didn’t want to be unexpectedly exposed to any Maudlin Madeleines that might send me into sudden paroxysms of grief -- else I might's well go ahead and christen her “The Leader of the Pack.”

Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!

So New Car and I spent our first few dozen days together listening to NPR and quietly feeling each other out. Getting to know one another, as it were. Getting to like her, getting to hope she liked me. And -- as these things have so often gone for me throughout my life -- I liked her fine, but she told me to cram it up my ass.

No, no, that isn’t fair. Blaming her for what happened would be like blaming that fabled snake for biting you when you were dumb enough to pick it up. Especially if you’re Destructo, so you probably squeezed it a little harder than you knew you should. And also maybe wanted to see what would happen if you put a teeny-tiny finger in its mouth...

See, the New Car has an alarm system, and it’s my first. Not only that, but the key-fob-thinger that's supposed to turn it on and off is broken. And I don’t mean dead-battery-broken, either (which would be bad enough, considering how long I take to get around to doing things); but I mean genuinely, honest-to-god broke. There is a spare one, but the spare one's broken, too. And now that I think about it, maybe the problem isn't actually in the fob-thingers but the receiver-thingy that you point it at... Ah well, I’ll put a pin in that idea for now, because it’s not germane.

The germ is that I have to unlock the door with the key. Which really oughtn't to be a big deal -- this is, after all, what I’ve always had to do in all my other, oldey-timey cars. But in a move I’m sure is informed by some sort of Mystical Eastern Logic that I’m too closed-minded or Western-centric to understand, it turns out that opening the door with the key that was, you know, made for it, is not enough to put the 86 on the alarm. Oh no. You then have to put the key in the ignition and start it up within so many seconds or the honk-honk-honking starts. Because it's not like the same damn key does both or anything, or like a thief who had the key would ever be in any kind of rush to start the car.

I did try leaving it unlocked (which is, oddly enough, also what I’ve always done in all my other oldy-timey cars) but the Very Centered Alarm System zens itself into action anyway. Honk! Honk!

So I very quickly got used to sliding in the driver’s seat and starting it, no matter what or how brief my intent, then getting out and going round the other side to fetch the dog leash off the floor in the back seat. I usually do twister-worthy contortions to shut it off and extricate the key, though, so as not to have to get out and go back around. I tried contorting to get it started, too, but not only did it fail to work, I also nearly wrenched my yatta-yatta.

We had more or less settled into this routine when I took her out to meet my Dad one afternoon, and my little Japanese Darling took the opportunity to show off a whole new trick. Let's say I don’t know when it was, exactly, but that the whole family was there -- eating lollipops, playing with puppy dogs and basking in the sun – and I volunteered to run out and get a few copies of that day’s paper because we happened to know there was going to be a really cheerful article in it about skittles and beer. I started the car, realized I'd left my wallet on the table, left her running while I ran inside to get it -- and when I did the little traitor locked me out! The damn New Car somehow locked its own damn doors without me in it, and my damn brother-in-law had to call damn AAA to let me damn back in.

Well, Brother-In-Law didn’t have to. I could’ve done it. Lord knows I’ve got enough experience with roadside service, I could probably have done it blindfolded with both hands tied behind my back. I probably have. I don’t remember. I tell you folks, the early ‘90s are a total blur...

Anyway, the AAA guy who came was really mean about it. Didn't make eye contact with anyone or say a single word. Even when the job was done he just got in his truck and drove away. It hasn't happened since, but now the New Car Door Opening Routine has expanded to include a spare key carried in my left pants-pocket, just in case. Oh, and me remembering not to tell AAA guys that "I do this sort of shit all the time." At least, not right up front when I haven't had a chance to put my cute on.

A few days after that is when the seatbelt busted. I think I told you about this at the time, but for those of you who are new, or old, or drunk like me and don’t remember, here’s the germ: it got harder and harder for me to put it in but I just kept pushing, until finally I looked and saw there was some sort of foreign object stuck in there (and if I'd ever seen a thing like that before – even in the early ‘90s – I’d remember). Turns out I had managed to, inch by stupid, not-paying-attention inch, cram an entire napkin down inside. I crammed it back out with a bamboo skewer and it was no worse for the wear. But still.

New Car and I were certainly learning beautiful and new things about each other, that’s for sure.

I didn't name her Anna, did I? I'm not telling! Probably not, though! With my luck I wouldn't get the singing-dancing kind of Anna, I'd get the kind that ODs on sleeping pills or throws herself under a train! But I guess you'll have to wait till next time to find out...

More or Less Bunk, Part IV: The Road Has Been Too Long

Well, folks, we've upped the tally. Poor Dumb Kitty --

(a.k.a. Dodo; real name Wilson) 

-- is this close to losing a toe. Got out in a snowstorm, ripped a nail trying to pull open the door (door opens in; can't say he didn't come by that nickname honestly), and now it's... Well, let's just say "gross" and leave it at that. Doctor says if he had his druthers he'd just take the toe right now, but Dodo is 16 years old and there's a good chance he won't survive the anaesthetic, so we're trying to avoid that if we can. Maybe when there's a definite outcome I'll write the whole story, and maybe it will be hysterical, but in the meantime just add two droppers of amoxicillin to the seventeen-pill total I gave before. Johnny says all the boys in the house are sick and all the girls are healthy. I say that's because us girls aren't out carousing in the middle of the night and licking at ourselves. Not anymore.

And yet, I soldier on!

(continued from the previous post...)

So everyone agrees the new car's great. Runs great, gets great mileage, doesn't have any rust or dents (not yet, at least, but at this point in the story I've only had it for a week). My dad's doing a Don't-Worry-Be-Happy dance at how reliable it is, and both of my mechanics have turned cartwheels. Everything is good. The car is great.

But boring? Oh my god, I'm driving the equivalent of orthopedic shoes. They may be the best thing for your lumbar structure, but they sure as shit ain't gonna get you laid. This is the first time in my life I've actually memorized my license plate before I got towed or had to call one, because it's the only way I can find the damn thing in a parking lot. Toyota Camry, feh! And not only is it a freakin' Mom Car with no personality at all, it -- okay, "she" -- is also the same green color as every other car manufactured between 1995 and '99. If there's one thing that this car is not, it's me. So how the hell was I going to name it?

Okay, "her."

(I don't know how the hell the mechanic sexed her, but maybe it's like when Dirty Boy sexed baby chickens: maybe you just have to know the spot to squeeze. Hey, speaking of which, we haven't had a look at Dirty Boy in a while -- and doesn't this seem as good a time as any for a little pick-me-up?

...ah, that's better. Now where was I?)

I've always driven shitbox cars. I simply do. I've never been able to afford a decent one, for one thing, and for another I don't really see the point. Even if I had the money, why should I spend $400 a month on payments, when I could spend less than that on insurance for a year? I mean, yes, towards the end there Chuck (TFT) was costing us the equivalent of a car payment every couple months, but that's why we took him out back and put a bullet in him. Never let a stranger shoot your dog, I always say.

Actually, we didn't. But that story's slated for, like, two installments down the road. And I've never really had the stomach to pull my own trigger on anything, although I would have liked to plug Veronica. Oh my god, but did I hate that bitch.

Ooh, that reminds me: I'm supposed to be talking about names, here.

See, I try to name my cars after a song I hear on the radio the first time I turn them on. And I do mean radio-radio, no cheating -- it's not like any of 'em ever had a working tape deck or CD player, anyway -- but I do allow myself a little wiggle room. It has to be a real name-name, first of all. Calling my car "The Wanderer" or "The Mess Around" would be ridiculous.



Rule two is that the name has to match the sex. Can't go calling a boy car Roxanne or Maggie May, else you'll wind up having to fetch him home from Harvard Square at 3:00 every Saturday and Sunday morning.

My first car was a boy, though, and he was named for "Alice's Restaurant." I don't know why it came on the radio right then, considering my parents bought old Alice for me as a college graduation present, so it had to have been May or early June. But there you go. I decided it was fate. And I also decided it was perfectly acceptable for him to have a girl's name, because if Alice Cooper could pull it off and still scare the pee-pee out of mothers everywhere, then why not a '79 Buick Regal two-door in diaper-brown? And sure enough, in his brief life Alice did more than his share of pee-pee scaring -- especially that one night, racing to make it back to Harvard Square by midnight, doing 90 on the work-zone Pike between altogether-too-close suicide rails. But poor old Alice blew a head gasket eighteen months after I got him, and the mechanic said we had to put him down.

That's when Veronica came along. '81 Dodge Diplomat in black. Looked like a police car and acted like a pig. Went through alternators like a good old boy throwing beer cans out the window, and leaked power-steering fluid even after I replaced the entire steering mechanism piece by piece. Well, all right, I didn't do it. The mechanic did. First (and last) mechanic who ever tried to call me "Honey," too. Hated that fucking cunt. It was just a coincidence, but the longer I owned her the happier it made me she was named for a song with the lyric "You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica." As you can see, I called her all manner of other things besides her name.

She was still hanging in there just to spite me when my Grampy Jim died, and the whole extended family agreed I was the one most in need of his car. At least, that's the story that I came away with and I'm sticking to it; if there was any dissent in the ranks, I would really rather never know. 1980 Chevy Impala, four-door, sort of a faded yellow. Or she started out that color, anyway. I had her for about a year before I made a bad left turn and got her all bunged up. Totaled her, as a matter of fact -- shifted her whole front end an inch and a half to the left (although you should've seen the other guy) -- but for sentimental reasons my dad paid for the repair. Mostly. I was supposed to swing the paint job but I didn't, so for the rest of her life she had a black hood and a slate-blue front right side. Cecilia was her name, although in the eight years I drove her she never shook my confidence or broke my heart. Not until the day she finally and irretrievably gave up the ghost, and I literally chased after her on the flatbed wrecker down the middle of the street.

By this time Johnny and I were living together, so with Cecilia's passing we got our first "new" car from George. A grey Chevy Astro, '86 or something like that. I don't remember. It seemed so sexless and obscure after Cecilia, I never had the heart to learn its name. I don't know how long we had it, either, or even really how it came to die. Just that it had a bad distributor cap, so it used to leave me stranded when it rained.

Same with the next one. Not the cap, I mean: the anonymity. Some stupid, giant-ass, Ford E-150 souped-up pleasure van. George didn't find him for us, Johnny bought him from a friend, and I half-heartedly dubbed him Babe the Blue Ox 'cause he was. But I can't say I was sorry when he failed inspection one year later on account of you could see the asphalt whizzing by right through the floor.

Then came Francine, and I already told you about her. She wasn't named for a song so much as for Ms. Reed, the Very Fine Lady who sang (among countless other things) with Lyle Lovett and his Large Band. The first time I laid eyes on that old Caddy I just knew she was the kind of ride Ms. Reed deserves. Check it.



Right? She got me excited about naming cars again, Francine did. Then POW! and along came The Fucking Truck.

So that brings us right around back where we started. To me, waiting to hear what sort of propaganda my anonymous Japanese Lady might preach to me through the radio.  


You didn't think I could do it, did you? But I did. Nearly 1500 words with absolutely no plot-development at all! That's got to be some sort of record, don't you think?

To be continued...

More or Less Bunk, Part III: Days of Wine

Waaay back in 2008, Dr. One Friend's folks said they would buy her a new car. As in, like, new-new. Brandy-new. It was a combination PhD-getting, 40-turning, New England-living Christmas present, but she had to do it by herself. All they were offering to do was write the check -- to her, not to the dealer -- she'd have to do all the rest on her own. As a result, she'd been sort of dragging her feet for quite some time.

First, she thought about it. This process took six months.

Then, she decided she wanted an Audi TTS convertible. Vroom-vroom! That lasted, oh, about another month or so -- until she realized she wasn't going to get anywhere near $25,000 on trade-in for her 1996 Toyota Camry.

Finally, probably sometime late last spring, she got all earnest. She did research, she test-drove, she comparison-shopped, and she narrowed it down to a few realistic choices.

June came and went...

And then July...

By August she knew what she wanted -- Subaru Forester, definitely. But should it be red? Or orange?

September came...

October...

Red! Definitely red!

Most of November...

Then, when I thought Chuck (TFT) was dead-dead-dead, she called me.

"This is going to be very awkward," she began. "Just let me say it:

"You know I've been planning to trade in the Camry all along. I'll get less for it than I would if I sold it, but I don't feel like dealing with the hassle. It's old, it needs brakes, and I don't have the patience to negotiate with some nitpicky Craigslist asshole."

Patience has never been high on Dr. One Friend's long list of admirable attributes.

"Now," she continued. "I decided back in August that, if you want it, I would sell it to you for the price they offered me on trade-in. Don't answer now. I've been quoted anywhere from $500 to $1500 for it, and I know that $1500 is twice what you guys usually spend. Think about it, let me settle on a dealership and get a firmer price, then if you're interested I'll bring it up and you can have George take a look at it -- make sure, too, that he can fix Toyotas. Because like I said, it's old, and I know it's needed brake shoes for a while."

I thought about it. The process took about six minutes.

"The only reason I hesitate," I said, "is that I am going to bitch about the car. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of its life. I'm going to name it, and hate it, and make fun of it on my blog, and I wouldn't want any of that to affect our friendship. I won't be mad at you for any of it -- trust me, I'm more than used to driving shitbox cars -- but I wouldn't want you to feel defensive and put-upon every time you hear me stamp my feet and say 'That fucking car!'"

She may live 150 miles from me, but when I stamp my feet I stamp 'em loud. Fortunately, put-uponitude is also low on Dr. One Friend's personality profile.

"I would never have even thought about that, Erin," she said. "Jeez, don't be ridiculous!"

And two weeks later it was done. The price got firmed up at $1100, George looked at it and said it was the best car we've ever had. Dr. One Friend picked up her red Forester, drove the Camry here for me and took the train back down.

I got it insured and registered, but was late getting it inspected because Something Maudlin happened. When I finally took it in -- to the same garage I buy my gas from, and the same mechanic who had just done Chuck (TFT) the week before -- I swear to god I saw him do a cartwheel.

"Where did you get this car!?" he said, practically giggling. "Even just pulling it in to the station, I can tell it's tight. It's like brand-new! You'll get another 100,000 miles out of her, easily!"

So I guess that seals it: the New Car is a her. Which at least narrows down the choices for a name...


You probably think this story's finished, don't you? Ah, have we not met at all over the years? To be continued!

Oh! I Almost Forgot!

My Significant Dragon sold for $31! Thanks to all who bid on it, and to whoever won!

That means three whole weeks I have to go without mentioning anything maudlin. Hm...

No! Wait! That's not the deal! You can't fool me! I'm just not allowed to talk about that maudlin topic. All the other bullshit nights in this suck city are fair game.

Clock starts now.