I come from people who drive cars until they die. We buy them secondhand and stick band aids all over them until they just plum won’t run no more. Car trouble still sets itself apart as a special kind of worry for me. As a kid, we normally couldn’t afford to just buy a whole new car – we had to use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. I’d personally rather have health troubles or house troubles than car troubles. I’m one of those people who can work the vehicle but doesn’t know how it works. I’m no Zen and the Art of Car Maintenance. My Volvo, Oona, has been at the Volvo clinic for many months, and I’ve been driving Husband’s Infiniti which, as of last night, blew its alternator completely to bits.This morning we go to pick up Oona and post the Infiniti for the scrap heap.
That’s another thing. My car troubles come in big waves. Oona and the Infiniti were purchased within a month of each other after my darling old Toyota, Ziggy, was deemed “the most dangerous car he’d ever been in” by our mechanic due to lack of shocks, and Husband’s Firebird sort of fell apart. AT THE SAME TIME. Stupid cars. I had to replace the transmission on the Toyota about a month before I headed off to India which meant straining already strained finances.
I’d like to have more reliable public transit in my town. Better yet – this is Kentucky. Let’s ride horses to work. Instead of a parking garage there could be a stable for horses and carriages. It couldn’t possibly take you longer to ride home on a horse than sit in traffic. I would name my horse Black Beauty or National Velvet and off we’d go, into the sunset. I could learn to ride sidesaddle and wear a flowing cape, a la Arden from Lord of the Rings movies. Yes, I believe I’d like to trade in the car for a horse.
thewritingspider