Vehicular Suicide

I wish that my cars would quit attempting to take their own life.  If anyone knows of a program that treats this sort of condition, please let me know. 

As any of you who know me in real life will attest, cars seem to be a thorn in my flesh.  Let's bring it back to the year 2000 as we meet my first dork-mobile, a brand-spanking-new-to-me 1987 Nissan Maxima.  A gorgeous shade of white, this car was two years younger than me and the vehicular equivalent of a shoebox on wheels.  Perhaps subconciously, I totaled this car a mere two weeks before my senior year in high school began. 

One thing that the Maxima had going for it, besides its obvious class and style, is a lack of major mechanical problems.  The next jewel in my possession was not so sound.  Allow me to introduce Bertha the Buick, a blindingly white whale of a car with a grille that only Grandma could love.  I feel certain that my parents picked this car because they felt it would challenge an 18-wheeler in a traffic tangle and still come out on top.  It was similar to driving a padded room or a white puffy down parka.  Nothing was getting between this baby and me.

The great thing about having a 1993 (yes, it could still be my younger sister) car is that you are kept perpetually on your toes.  I am not a betting woman, but I know the rush that gamblers must feel as they step up to the slot machine hoping for 3 lucky sevens.  This is what it felt like each day as I slid the (also inflated) key into the ignition.  Will it start?  Will it sputter?  Daddy, what's that noise and why is there smoke everywhere?  Every day was a new adventure with Bertha.

Bertha also liked to take frequent vacations from her taxing job of shuttling me to school, church, and work.  When she felt like she needed a break, which was pretty much every 3 months, she would decide to dismantle one of her more expensive parts leave me stranded, weeping in some random parking lot.  She was towed out of Olive Garden, Starbucks at all three Chattanooga locations, the school library lot, both of my places of work, and of course, from my own house, which was 1.6 miles away from the service station.  Tow trucks around town knew me by name.

Mind games were also a favorite of Bertha.  One night as I was driving home from work, I noticed that each time I took my foot off the gas pedal, the car's speedometer would plummet down to 10 or 15 mph.  Perplexed, I tried to keep my foot on the gas as much as possible, which is always fun when traversing a road shrouded in darkness with no roadside lighting and plenty of curves.  That's when the radio started flickering on and off.  Before I had time to mentally process this, my headlights shut themselves off as well.  Eventually the car fell into a deep, soothing sleep as I coasted up the hill and into the driveway, at which point it promptly died.  Again, weeping and heart palpitations may or may not have been involved.  My father was not convinced, as I was, that the car had become possessed by Satan and was in need of an exorcism.  He was leaning towards the replacement of it's alternator.  One of us was right.

I believe I matched my entire college tuition on what I paid to keep Bertha afloat.  So needless to say, as soon as I got a real job in the real world, I signed myself up for a real car loan complete with a real payment book.  My cherry red Pontiac was like a shining beacon of hope-beautiful, reliable, compact, and NOT WHITE. 

My husband entered my life shortly before I bought the car.  Together with his sport Eclipse, we were quite the pair on the road.  Somewhere during our first year of marriage, we made the decision to live debt-free.  He paid off his car, and blinded by love and Dave Ramsey's voice, I sold my beloved Pontiac.

It turns out that when everyone tells you an old, very used car is not as reliable as a 2007 model with one previous owner, they just might be onto something.  Our first car to replace the Pontiac (yes, you read that right--more on the second, third and fourth cars later) was a Daewoo Leganza.  Now, at this point, we were not looking for a BMW, but rather something cheap and dependable to get us through the next couple of years.  Trade "weeks" for "years" and the Daewoo did exactly that.  I believe the course of events was as follows: back new-old car out of driveway, scream at funny noise and vibrations, call husband crying, take to mechanic, new expensive hoses, more funny noises, cannot fix, got a lemon, car not starting, mechanic has car towed away since it won't run. 

Well, anyone can have one episode of bad luck during this process, right?  You betcha!  The Daewoo's replacement was an Oldsmobile Aurora (just call me Granny Long) that needed "just a touch of coolant" and was top of the line at its release in 1994.  Just so you know, July is not the best month to discover that the "touch of coolant" only works well if your AIR CONDITIONER COMPRESSOR IS FUNCTIONAL.  Coolant=10 dollars.  Compressor=half of what we paid for the car.  Oh, and did I mention the wee little oil leak from the head gasket which caused us to carry quarts of oil in the car's glove compartment?  I felt like a rolling Molatov cocktail each time I entered the interstate in this bad boy. 

Someone was gracious enough to rear-end me at the end of August and put us out of the Aurora's misery.  The appraiser from my insurance company thought my reaction to be a bit odd when he "broke the news to us" that the car was totaled.  Apparently, most people don't shed tears of joy or begin an interpretive dance of thankfulness when they hear this news.  They cut us a check for the car's value (stop laughing) and we went car shopping.  By now, this is no big deal for my husband and I.  "What's that babe?  It's the first of the month?  Oh, my, we forgot to go buy a car!"

Our new car's birthday is a bit painful for me to type, so let's suffice it to say we are back, way back, in the 90's.  This shopping experience was particularly interesting in that a salesman attempted to sell me the most odiferous vehicle I've ever sat in.  As he handed us the keys to test drive this purple (the color of royalty!) monstrosity, I caught a whiff of an unmistakably bad smell.  Imagine all the cats God ever made in one place.  Then imagine them climbing into this car with no access to a litter box.  Roll up the windows, set to bake at 500 degrees in the summer sun, and you have an idea of what I experienced.  I managed to speak while gagging and mentioned that there was a "smell", to put it nicely, to this particular car.  His response was that the upholstery got wet while being shampooed and, I quote, "A little Febreze should knock that right out".  Now, as the owner of four pets, I love Febreze and can attest to its awesomeness.  But it this case, it's like slapping a Band-Aid on an open heart surgery patient's chest and calling it a day.  Not gonna cut it.

Thankfully, we found a nice man with an older Honda Civic that was driven to church once a week by a little old lady, don't ya know.  It has been a decent car despite its 180,000 miles, and we've even cheated death by taking it on a road trip to visit the in-laws.  Maybe this is the one that will carry us until...*ring ring*

Excuse me, the husband's calling...

"Hi, honey.  What's that?  How can a car overheat in winter?  OK, I'll be there in a few.  Usual place, right?"

500 dollars and a new water pump later, I may or may not be crying a little. 

But that's ok.  The road to freedom from debt it marked with many speed bumps, and God always provides for us.  I just look forward to the day when my cars can have some more self-esteem.