Straightjacket, Please!

After months of kvetching about my lack of reliable transportation, I have put on my "big girl panties" and am preparing (tonight) to sell my Uplander mini-van, which just so happens to have been my dear, departed mother's vehicle. I purchased it from Dad after Mom flew home to the angels.

He said he didn't want it anymore because it didn't have enough legroom. I know better.

On Friday, I went to an area dealership and promptly fell in love with another car. Which brings me to today's bout of existential angst. In order to purchase the new vehicle, I have to get rid of the old vehicle, which I thought I was no longer in love with until I began cleaning it out today.

I started at the back end of the car, where the first aid kit resided amongst discarded juice boxes, a copy of Junie B. Jones First Grader, assorted candy wrappers, broken crayons, and countless fur-covered peanut M&Ms and sticky pistachio hulls. To say that my hands encountered the most disgusting morass of vile childhood trash is an understatement. I washed from the elbows to the tips of my fingers after I was done.

As I worked my way forward, to the front of the car, and the glove compartment in particular, I found the vehicle delivery paperwork signed in my mother's beautiful scrolled handwriting, her own version of a first aid kit, and all of the original tags and stickers from the day she bought the car, all lovingly stowed away for me to find just now. It was like discovering a time capsule and recognizing that a little part of her still existed somewhere on God's green earth.

I had to resist the urge to lift the paperwork to my nose and sniff deeply of its fibers to catch one last whiff of her...something I caught myself doing frequently in the days after she passed. The human heart just doesn't understand loss. And, even four years later, when I've supposedly made so much progress with my grief, I find that my heart is still incapable of understanding.

And so, I go to the dealership this afternoon with a heavy heart, knowing that I am absolutely doing the right thing, that my mother is looking down on me and wishing me every happiness in the world, including having a new car that isn't hellbent on killing me.

But when I hand those keys over, I know I will be sad, because even though I never really liked the car much, I will be giving away my last tie to her. I won't be able to put my hands on the places where her hands rested on the steering wheel. And, I won't be able to have my one-sided conversations with her because it was the one place I felt closest to her. How is it that I can hate the mechanics of the van but also love it so much because of who owned it?

Did I mention that I need serious therapy?

I am sure I will work all of this out on my own this evening. And, I will pray that the family who purchases this car loves it as much as the original owner. Because this Chevrolet Uplander mini-van deserves to be loved that much.

And I am not capable. Not anymore.

A Tale of Woe For Tuesday

I own a mini-van. I realize I could stop this post right here.

I mean, really, who wants to drive a mini-van? Even as a young girl, I found them hideous and unsightly. And now, I drive one. Piteous, isn't it?

Alas, I have children. They cannot drive. Therefore, I am forced to act as their chauffeur. Which explains why I own said damnable mini-van. Having a family means you have to have a family roadster.

I am in the market to trade in this family roadster and move up to a mid-sized SUV with seating for 8. Think GMC Acadia or Honda Pilot.

And, I would already have one if:

(1) At exactly the moment the odometer on my mini-van clicked over to 100,000 miles, the transmission promptly chose to stop working, forcing us to purchase and have installed a $2,200 rebuilt transmission that - GET THIS! - is only warrantied for another 24,000 miles.

Thank you, sir, I'll have another...

(2) Inexplicably, while driving to Rotary the other day with a very nice man in my car who I was innocently taking there as my guest, the Antilock Braking System (ABS) decides to fry out and I barely get the damn thing stopped as I skid to a stop at a yellow light. I don't know who was more mortified - him or me, as we both watched our collective lives flash before our eyes. This man almost died for a slice of slimy lasagna!

Oh, it gets EVEN BETTER...

(3) I explain to my Dear Husband that the van brakes are kaput over dinner the next night. The poor man wants to go out right then and drive the hunk of junk just to replicate the soul-snatching experience of skidding through intersections that I experienced just the day before. We promptly drop the car off at Robertson's Tire, where they diagnose the wheel bearings as being shot. Apparently, the ABS system is attached to the wheel bearings in Chevrolet Uplander mini-vans. There's some information you'll need for your next round of Trivial Pursuit!

A mere $275 later, I have my car back in time for the weekend.

(4) On Saturday, while on a trip to Tulsa to return some jeans that didn't fit my growing corn-fed son, the "Service ABS System" light returns to mock me with its red glowing eyes. This morning, on the way to school, I barely get the thing stopped as the brakes slip yet again!

Dear God in Heaven, who loves me, and Whom I love dearly, I just want to trade this car in. I would prefer not to tow it to the dealership, as it does not help the trade-in value when one does that. Plus, I really don't look any better riding in a tow truck than I do riding in this steel gray rattletrap that is hell-bent to take my life with its brake slippage. All this to say, I NEED A NEW CAR NOW!

Hugs and kisses with sugar on top,

ClareMom