Horseless Carriages

I do not have good luck with cars.

I'm a sensible driver.  I don't "gun" the engine. I don't aim for potholes. I don't hit curbs. I don't tailgate. I like speed but not around town.

I am perfect.

My cars, however, are not.

I got Bessie inspected this past Wednesday--three days ago. She had a temperamental rattle up front and a stubborn streak upon acceleration. U-joint said Hubby, maybe a ball joint or two. A steering arm. A loose heat shield, perhaps.

When he finally switched to speaking English, I gathered up my checkbook and headed for the dealership.

Ah, yes, Betsy needed new shoes. And some kind of hub (two of those) and a bunch of other stuff, including the U joint and the drive shaft. Geez.

Do we put all this money into a vehicle with over a hundred thousand miles on it? I think not.

Buy something, said Hubby.

I hate car shopping. My son sold cars. I would say, "Find me something I can afford." He would say, "Come sign the papers", and PRESTO! the deal was done. 

This time I was sans Nick, but at least I knew everybody else.

"Can you bring the car down for an assessment for your trade?"

"Sure! Twenty minutes."

Not to be.

Halfway down the highway, four lanes of sixty-mile-per-hour traffic, I heard a grind. Then a rattle, then a BANG! BANG! BANG!!!!!. Old Bessie was cleaning her closets of parts she didn't want anymore--including the drive shaft. The drive shaft?  Really?

I won't bore you with waiting for a flatbed tow, cleaning out five years of junk from the trunk, finding a car to replace her, endless piles of paperwork and the trip back home in a Buick loaner, then back again because I had left my driver's license in my briefcase. I won't tell you about agonizing the  choice between a minuscule hatchback with a trunk--not exaggerating here--big enough to hold a Pepsi twelve pack and a limo-size SUV that sleeps ten. 

An aside here. The little bugger had an energizing yellow and black interior. It was love at first sight--until I turned the key. Our lawn mower has more power. The real deal-breaker was that there was no CD player. A drive without the Boss? I think not. Besides, Hubby informed me, there was NO WAY he would be seen riding in something that looked like he had flossed from between his teeth.

A word to the wise. The insurance on the mini-hatch, in spite of ten airbags, is still more than the insurance for the behemoth.

In the end, neither the death trap nor the tank sit in my driveway. I ended up (with Hubby's sigh of relief) in a mid-size SUV, the offspring of Bessie. This one has toys...lots of toys... that I can't wait to learn. OnStar, rear back-up camera, remote start. CD player. USB ports. I don't know yet how fast it goes. (Break it in first, girl, says Hubby.)

And XM radio with a channel totally devoted to The Boss.