Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Countdown to 200,000: Why my Saturn is the best car ever
Hey, look—my Saturn hit 197,000 miles last Saturday!
I’m the first to admit I have a weird emotional attachment to my vehicle, but it’s only because I have the most awesome car on earth. It’s the first new car I ever purchased entirely on my own. I bought it in 1996 after my first divorce and since then, I’ve gone through a whole other husband and, of course, innumerable boyfriends.
My car is cute as hell—it’s a two-door coupe about the size of a kitchen table—and at last count I got 41 miles to the gallon. I’ve never had a problem with it (knock on wood), even though the “Service Engine Soon” light flashes on now and then and another red light on the dashboard has been blinking for like a year or so. I assume it’s nothing to worry about.
The guy at Big O Tires pitched a freakin’ fit like last time I pulled in without a drop of oil in my tank, so now I do have to put oil in the car, but because I don’t actually know how to check the oil, I use my psychic powers to determine just how many gallons to pour in at a time. I really have no idea what’s going on under the hood (maybe I’m not even putting the oil in the right place—who knows?) I just know my car runs perfectly (fingers crossed).
Men don’t seem to share my enthusiasm for my beloved Saturn, probably because it’s terribly uncomfortable for anyone larger than my 5’4” frame, but maybe also because the roof is a little dented from when a tree fell on it back in 2000 or maybe because I never wash it. (Men are into washing their vehicles.) (Whatever.) A guy I was dating once said to me, “Linda, I love everything about you except your car” and I thought, “Newsflash, dude: This car will sooooo outlast you.” Of course, I was right.
“Love me, love my car,” I say, though I definitely have a double standard. If a guy picked me up for a date in such a shitbox, I’d be like, are you out of your freakin’ mind? The only way I could get past it would be if he had a cool British accent. Yeah, I’m that shallow.
I probably shouldn’t brag about my Saturn; I probably should be mortified that at this age I’m driving a dusty 12-year-old vehicle with a dent in the roof--not exactly the picture of success. (My friend Joey D tells me his neighbors must think the maid is there when they see my car parked out front.) But I love my car and I’m not about to give it up, and in 3,000 miles, I’ll be having one hell of a celebration.