New Car Smell

Good morning, Maybe Hazel.

I'm about to head out the door for a little walk, and guess what I'll see on our way out? (Drum roll, please)  . . . A BRAND . . . NEW . . . (this is mo' bettah if you picture it in the Price is Right voiceover). . .  Mommy-Mobile!!!

Here it is!!! 2012 Nissan Versa. You'll be chillin' in the back. I like how you can see how duck-footed I am in the reflection.

As much as I wish it would have magically appeared outside our apartment, it did take some doing. I knew, logically, that I couldn't put you in the front seat of my trusty old Nissan Frontier. I mean, I could have done, but I probably would get the same looks that I'd get if I decided to throw back a pint of beer at my local pub (mmmmmm . . . beer . . .). Plus, realistically, it's just not safe to have you in the front seat of the vehicle. Really, it's not, so please don't ask to ride in the front until you're 12.

The purchase wasn't so awful, but it lasted forever. Thomas, my car salesman, is a comic-book artist. I kid you not, he looks just like Comic Book Guy (and although he no longer has a ponytail, he lamented its loss). I kept waiting for him to say, "Worst job ever," since once he found out I was a fellow geek and artist, he kept repeating that he was an artist first, salesman second. He even had his portfolio with him, so while I waited for this, that, and the other, I was able to take a gander. He's pretty legit. As an artist, anyway.

I had one breakdown (I made it to the bathroom and had a satisfying and long cry). It followed after the process had been going on for hours, and I was slowly finding out that my vision of how things were going to go (short-term loan, tons of $ for my truck, etc.) was not going to be fulfilled. Part of my truck's reduced value had to do with a stupid accident. A couple years ago, when I landed in Albuquerque after taking students to Australia, I thought I could drive straight to Phoenix the next morning. As I pulled in to get gas, I took the side of my truck against that concrete poll thing that keeps people like me from taking out the entire gas pump. It did some brutal damage. One little attempt at blowing up a gas station, and CARFAX is all, "Oooooooh, shame on you, girl." Poop.

After some push/pull with Comic Book Guy, his mysterious manager (seriously, why do these managers give off such villain vibes?), and team G-Locas (that's us, btw, until I can think up a more suitable nickname), the deal was done. Yes, loans (booooo), and yes, safe (yayyyyy!). My mom and her hubby William saved our day with a Happy Meal, and they prevented another breakdown by taking all the stuff out of my good old truck.

It's just a thing. A vehicle. But it's also a symbol. A metaphor for big change. I'll miss my truck (and all the silly stickers I'd plastered all over it--my favorites were from Japan). But, in the end, it's just a truck. And, more importantly, you'll now have a much safer place in which to store and fossilize Cheerios and french fries.