Maybe you thought my new walking habit was the result of my wanting to save money on gas.
Or maybe you thought I was in it for the fitness.
Or, possibly, you suspected I enjoy the sense of superiority I get to feel over motorists as they speed by me with their gas-guzzlers and I stand there with a “DON’T MIND ME, I’M JUST SAVING THE EARTH FOR THE CHILDREN I DON’T EVEN HAVE” smirk on my face. The same smirk I get when I pull out my stack of reusable shopping bags at the grocery store, and the cashier just rolls her eyes like, “Not this.”
Whelp, you’d be right.
I do it for all those reasons.
But there’s been another reason lately.Namely, my car’s a free-loading jerkface and has refused to start.
The other week, when it was so freaking cold out that I didn’t want to go anywhere ever again, my car decided the same thing. But, unlike me, my car actually has a choice in the matter.
My car doesn’t have to go to work to earn money.
Instead, it can be all like “Nah, not today” and refuse to start and make me trudge off to work while it sits under a nice cozy blanket of snow, hanging out with all the other cool cars in the parking lot, while eating whatever the car-equivalent of bon-bons is.
So that’s what it did.
And this was after I’d just got it some shiny new snow tires for Christmas. Because lavish gifts don’t mean a thing to this car.Not quite willing to admit defeat and really not wanting to shill out yet another paycheck on a lazy, no-good, bon-bon eating, new-tire-wearing-but-totally-ungrateful car, my first plan of attack was to coerce various male, mechanical type people I know to come take a look at it.
Including my brother, who crawled underneath my car in the snow and ice for, like, five hours, for which he deserves The Best Brother Ever Award, but I didn’t have one of those, so I gave him some oatmeal cookies instead. In my defense, they were pretty good cookies.
When nothing worked, I finally caved and had it towed off to the garage this week. After which, I was informed the problem could easily be fixed to the tune of approximately a bajillion dollars. Which I begrudgingly paid because at some point I may actually need to go somewhere outside of my three-mile walking radius.
While perusing the bill to figure out how in the heck a bunch of spark plugs and an oil change could possibly cost me as much as black market kidney, I came across something curious in the fine print:
Umm, excuse me, VEHICLE HEROIN? WHAT NOW?
It was bad enough when my car was just a free-loading jerkface.
Now it’s a junkie?
I have a feeling it’s never, ever going to leave the parking lot again.
And I can’t even imagine how expensive the car-equivalent of smack is.I don’t really have any questions for you this week besides, maybe, do you know a mechanic who needs a girlfriend? Or, at the very least, is willing to trade car repairs for cookies?