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Cars

Cars are great.  As an American, I have totally bought into the culture of owning a car, driving a car, freedom on the road, and what not. My city has limited public transportation, which usually isn’t going somewhere that I need to go.  Occasionally, I will ride into Atlanta on the train or bus, and I can say that I do appreciate leaving my car behind. When I travel to large cities, I try to do like the locals, and take advantage of public transportation, if I can figure it out. I have a long list of mess-ups—getting off a bus in the wrong section of New Orleans late at night, getting stuck inside the train terminal in Paris without a ticket to get me out, overshooting the stop in NYC and refusing to trust the bus system but instead walking in 19deg.F temps to get back to the right spot, etc.  For the most part, in my everyday life, I rely on myself to get me where I want to be, which usually involves a car.  I regret the hold that fossil-fuel chugging machines have on me, but I acknowledge it.

Interestingly enough, I am not particularly enamored with cars. What I mean is, I don’t pay much attention to kinds of cars, styles, makes, and models. I have to think really hard to remember what kind of car I drive, or anyone in my family drives.  My husband, Rob, pays attention.  He knows what kind of cars friends and acquaintances drive. He often remarks on car commercials, and notices cars in parking lots or on the road, asking me “Don’t you think that’s a good-looking car?”  Me: “What? Yeah, sure, I guess.” I can’t describe a good-looking car—it’s just a car. Something that gets you from this place to that place. For me, it’s more important for it to accommodate my needs. Can I read the stereo controls? Is there a cup holder? Is there enough room for a big run of groceries? Can I honk the horn, if necessary?  This requires a side note….

Seriously, what is up with horns these days? My current car, which is modern and technologically forward in many ways, has the lamest horn.  I am actually embarrassed when I have to use it.  I rarely press the horn, but, when a car starts merging into my lane on the interstate at 70 mph, about to actually hit my car, I lay on the horn. Or when someone pulls out at an intersection that I am already crossing. Or any number of mental mistakes that drivers make that cause me to honk “Helllooooo, I am heeeeeerrrree!  Don’t you seeeeee meeeeee?????”  Only, the sound from my horn squeaks out more like “eh, eh, eh.”  It sounds like the Know-it-All Boy in Polar Express. But, instead of “Do you know what kind of train this is?”, it eeks out a nasally “Do you know what happens when you crash into my car?”   Seems to me, someone needs to reassess the horn supply industry.

As I was saying, I love having a car, but I am not too particular about how the car looks. That’s a funny thing to say, coming from a girl whose first car was a metallic red convertible. Pause for a minute….Oh, I loved that car! After I started my first official job, it was time to buy a car of my own.  Before that time, I had driven and sometimes shared with my sister, a Ford Pinto and a Chevy Nova; two second-hand cars that my parents bought with the hope that they would plod along well enough to get us through high school and college. One even made it through graduate school!  Then, it was time for me to buy my own car.

I took a male friend with me to the car dealer, so the sales people wouldn’t push me around. Without a clear plan, we arrived at the car lot.  There it was:  "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" (angel choir chorus), with it’s metallic red paint, white canvas roof, snazzy look, and magnetic pull: the red convertible.  Emojis were not a thing yet, but my face was full-on emoji: big smile and heart eyes pulsating in and out.  This was my car.  I immediately did the Gwen-thing, extreme research to keep the system from beating me. Mind you, it was harder to do extreme research back in the day, before all the information in the world was at our fingertips via computers and smart phones. But, research, I did. Armed with my extensive research, and my crazy-good negotiation skills, I drove away in my shiny new convertible, with the salesman and the manager both scratching their heads wondering how they let that car go for that price.

Look at that fine looking car in the driveway!

I loved that car, driving with the top down, wind blowing in my hair. That’s when I got the nickname Hollywood, a name still used today. Well, mostly used by me as a computer login password. Oops, shouldn'ta said that. Never mind, just kidding.  Me and my convertible, what a pair. It was all great, until I became a mom. We quickly realized that driving a little baby with its little head all exposed to the air with no protection above it, was not a good idea. Plus, the baby, my son Will, hated the wind in his face. He cried, a lot.  My top-down excursions became limited to the stretch of road between daycare and my job. Fifteen minutes on the road—Wooo-Eeee! Maturity and family responsibility started taking over, and we realized that I needed to drive a sensible car.  I could not afford to have 2 cars—a fun car and a sensible car, so we sold my beautiful red convertible. And I started driving…..sigh…..a station wagon.  It was the beginning of a long line of station wagons and minivans and crossover SUVs. Practical cars that made sense for the family. I think that’s when my opinion of cars changed. Doesn’t matter what you drive, as long as it does the thing you need.

Because, after all, the car will be abused inside and out. Whether it’s a bird pooping on your car, a tailgater nicking your bumper, or a parking lot neighbor slinging their door into your paint, something is going to happen to your car. Our family record for abuse of a new car is 15 minutes. We excitedly drove off the car lot in our shiny new silver minivan with all four kids in tow.  We decided to celebrate by going to the nearby Sonic drive-in for Happy Hour treats.  The giddy excitement of enjoying our brand spanking new car was crushed minutes later when an entire strawberry milkshake was dumped on the back seat and floorboard. Pink milky lava oozing into every corner, niche, and crevice.   You have got to be kidding me—we just left the dealer's lot! We haven’t even gotten home, yet!

So, I guess, for me, cars lost their luster along the way. When Rob asks me how much I like various styles of cars, I really don’t have much input. It’s like showing me a handful of screws, all different lengths, dimensions, various heads, different materials, and asking me which I liked best. I dunno, which one works best for what you are doing? Maybe I have a little more interest than that, but I can’t say I have a whole lot. I cannot remember the names of different models of cars, and I cannot remember what cars look like. I don’t think there is a spot in my brain currently where that information can live. There too much clutter in there already.

Cheers to cars! May I continue to have the opportunity to drive! May I move forward to embrace advances in technology that reduce my dependence on fossil fuels! (I understand the conundrum: independence for me vs contributing to a worldwide problem.) May I recognize how dependent I am on the things that give me independence!

Now, if you don’t mind, I need to jump in my car and run to Target. And then, I need to remember to get online and change my password. Hollywood, out!