I've been in school for about a month now and honestly...I'm ready to be done. I was excited for these journalism classes, but the initial giddiness has long past worn off. In fact, I'm just tired. The only thing I'm still slightly stoked about is the book I'm writing in my independent study class. Other than that...I've never been so behind in homework. Now that John is going back to school and I get every Tuesday and Thursday to myself at home, I should be able to relax a little and get some work done. Finally. It helps that we are just down to Doreen. I'm going to be calling to ship my baby Monte Carlo off for junk soon. I find my heart breaking.
I've had my Monte since I was 15. My dad bought her for me as an Easter present (honestly, I think he was just looking for a holiday excuse that was most convenient). He had to put a number of hours into her to get her running smooth, and there was that electrical problem that took four years to figure out...my first car was just as temperamental as the teenager driving her. And she still is. That electrical problem only occurred during the summer (when I was working McD's and at my most volatile), and only seemed to cure itself when my dad came around (much like my moods--my dad has always been and will forever be my best friend). When we finally fixed that (just before I moved to Savannah), the air conditioning broke. Of course, the ride south became steadily more uncomfortable, but she kept chugging along, nonetheless.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, our Fiat's rear window was smashed out by an angry homeless guy. We drove my baby for one day, and I had just named her "ol' faithful," when she died. We called my favorite mechanic to see if we could save her (not just out of nostalgia, we really need two cars), but he declared her unfit to drive.
"I could spend the whole afternoon fixing her, but I still wouldn't let my own daughter get in that thing," he warned. He wasn't even able to jack her off the ground, she was so rusted through that her frame deteriorated every time he tried to boost her up. "You're from the North, I'm from the North, we both know this was bound to happen." He was incredibly sympathetic.
My dad taught me how to drive in Monte. I had my first, very awkward, kiss in that car. Monte Python's "Always look on the bright side of life" was playing when my crush went for it. Talk about lack of romance. A deer hit me in that car (seriously, it hit me. It came running out of a field and somersaulted over the hood of Monte, the ass cheek of the deer is permanently imprinted). I went on my first, incredibly nerve wracking date with John (I was determined to have some kind of control in the situation, and she was a comfortable old shoe) in that car. And I drove from Minnesota to Georgia in my green, mean, accelerating machine. I screamed and cried in the traffic through Atlanta, I shrunk in fear going through my first ghetto.
But she's kept me alive for 6 years. Her lack of electric locks was charming, the not knowing if the windows would roll back up was all part of the fun. When I saw the odometer clock past the 200,000 mark somewhere in Tennessee, I knew we were living on borrowed time. What with the Jeep gone too, I'm reluctant to let go. I just want her to work again. She's my last big, fat reminder of 'home.' My dad's signature is all over that rusted beast, and so are the signs of my teen years. As cliche as this sounds, all I'm going to have left are memories.
I've had so many life-changing moments in that car, I'm just not ready to give her up yet. Unfortunately our checking account is telling me otherwise. I wonder, if my car could talk to me, what she would say about my life so far. She's literally seen it all.
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