Car Love
Jennifer Flaten

I love my car. I talk nice to it. I buy my car nice gifts, like oil changes and gas and apologize every time the kids slam its doors too hard.

I know it sounds crazy. I am aware my crazy rating is already very high, but I’d buy my car flowers. I’d send my car to Hawaii if I thought it would make it last, as long as I need it to last.

Which at last check of my bank balance was, let’s see, carry the one; just say 20 years from now. Unfortunately, my car decided it asking it to drive a hundred miles a day constituted cruel and unusual punishment and it expressed its displeasure by refusing to go another mile.

Although this earned the car a nice long ride on a tow truck and a trip to the car spa, for a full engine massage, courtesy of my local mechanic, it left me in kind of a bind. I have places I need to be, actually the children have places they need to be; I am merely the driver. While the primary car was “resting,” I broke out the auxiliary car.

The auxiliary car is also known as the ‘called everyone I know and they were all busy and the rental car agency took one look at me and said “Oh hell no” car, so I am forced to pull this car out of storage’ car. Small, rusty and missing a few key pieces, the auxiliary car isn’t much to look at, but it gets the job done, loudly and slowly, as the car good for speeds over turtle.

After removing several inches of dust and assorted baby paraphernalia, yes, your right the kids are almost in middle school, obviously I have “throwing away“ issues too, from the car, I started it up. Sure, the car might be from the era when the only shape was square with four doors, but it still runs--okay so you have to give a huge push and a jump from the battery pack, but, yes, eventually it runs. Unless I want to hook the dog up to the little red wagon for my grocery run, who am I to complain? Besides, I already ran the wagon idea by the dog he didn’t seem to think it was such a good idea.

At this point I am sure you are wondering why I don’t use public transportation. Well, I live in one of those communities with no firm grasp on public transportation. This is Wisconsin, after all. Leaders, here, figure if your car fails you can turn to your snowmobile, weather permitting, ATV or even boat you don’t need no stinking public transportation.

Anyway, the car runs, well, we aren’t all that into looks in this family anyway. Off we went in the rolling citation magnet. Look, the car is so old and junky that even if a nun drove it and Jesus was in the passenger seat, the cops would still pull it over on suspicion of something.

Somehow, I avoided the long arm of the law, mainly because I skulked around unused streets in our subdivision. Happily, the primary car is back, with a raise up to mid-grade gas, and I no longer have to worry about parts falling off the car as I drive my errands.