I really love you, babe. But...

I think I need to start this post by stating that I love my husband dearly and there is no one else I’d rather be married to (well, maybe except for Brett Farve…) I knew from the first day I met him that he was the one for me. He’s a great dad, an amazing husband, he’s incredibly intelligent, way cute, and he makes me happy. But, my God – he’s driving me crazy with his freakin’ car!

You see, we have opposing views on many things…politics, spirituality, and the importance and relevance of math in one’s life (but that’s a story for another time). You name it; we could have a pretty good debate over it. Our most recent source of contention has been his stinkin’ piece of crap old “reliable” 1994 Dodge Intrepid.

I think our basic foundational beliefs in cars and their functionality, reliability, and appearance stems from our childhood experiences and our own fathers. My dad likes toys and spontaneous purchases, and he still does (right, Mr. Corvette?). He gets a new car every few years, and has ever since I can remember. He doesn’t like to mess with repairs and won’t chance safety by ever questioning their reliability…it’s just easier to trade it in and start over. Bill’s dad, on the other hand, has always been very handy under the hood of a car or truck. He taught his son about repairs and the importance of maintenance. He is very smart, practical and carefully calculates several factors (repair costs, Blue Book trade-in value, personal fix-it ability, safety, finances and Consumer Reports) when deciding to buy a new car.

God knows I love them both dearly, but they are a little different in that way…

So, here’s the story on Bill’s car:
(disclosure: the following technical car information and automotive accuracy is coming from one who know absolutely nothing about cars - me):

• Purchased about 5 years ago from my sister Jill for $1000
  
• Woo hoo – no car payments since 2002!
  
• White, multiple rust spots throughout the body that my dearest has since “fixed” with a can of spray paint. You can hardly tell until a new spot appears…
  
• It’s huge - even longer than my minivan. It's really hard to get it parked right and it barely fits in the garage. In fact there's a few scratches and dents in the back bumper to prove it.
  
• It’s been stalling lately. A lot.
  
• He has a “trick” to get it restarted while coasting. Usually.
  
• Replaced the spark plugs ($$)…
  
• Didn’t work
  
• Replaced the fuel injector thingy ($$$)…
  
• Didn’t work
  
• He called me last week to tell me he was stalled alongside of I-94 in rush hour traffic and his “trick” wouldn’t work.
  
• Had to call tow truck.
  
• Ooops! False alarm. Turn around, tow truck…got it started after all.
  
• Sh**! Stalled again. Called very-helpful-neighbor Varen for a ride.
  
• Ooops! False alarm. Again. Turn around very-helpful-neighbor Varen.
  
• Whew…finally made it home
  
• Drove 4 little kids up to the school for swimming.
  
• Crap…stalled again. Should they all walk home?
  
• Never mind – it started!
  
• Replaced the fuel pump and little screw-in gadget ($$$$)
  
• To be continued…

Personally, I’m never touching it again. I don’t want to get stuck alongside I-94 in rush-hour traffic. Just the thought of it makes my bladder tingle. Plus, I don’t know the “trick”.

So, I ask you, readers: When is it time to put this big, white hunk of partially-rusted metal out of its misery?

Yesterday, you say?

OK…I’ll pass that along to Bill.



So, although I hate your car more than almost anything in this world, honey - I love you. (And by the way – I was just kidding about the Brett Farve thing…)