I mentioned in an earlier post that my car’s seen a lot of damage. None of it is my fault. Penny’s been through a lot. (I named her Penelope when I bought her years ago, and now I can’t remember why. Everyone else calls her “The Pooper”.) Three years ago, I was t-boned by a teenage girl as I was driving through a four-way intersection.
Officially, the car was totaled. The amount it would take to fix the damage was more than Penny was worth, so I took the money offered by Progressive–$2000–and continued to drive the car because she still ran just fine. I didn’t fix anything. So the front end is slightly skewed to the left, the grill is gone, and the driver’s side headlight is in rough shape. Okay, I can live with that. I’m not one of these people who believes my car is an extension of my personality and therefore needs to look fantastic at all times.
However, since the accident, everyone and their dog has taken the opportunity to abuse my poor car. It gets egged by local hooligans at least four times a year. I can’t get the accumulated albumen out of the nooks and crannies of my side view mirrors. Three years ago someone spray painted curlicues around the damaged headlight. Five times in the last two years I’ve been hit while parked in various lots around town, and only once has the perpetrator left their name and phone number.
Yeah, all of that sucks big time. But until this past June I never had a single mechanical problem with Penny. Shit’s started really going down since then. The latest problem is with the radiator. It has a big hole in it. Twice in the last two days all the coolant has drained out of it and spread around Missoula’s roads to the culinary delight of local cats and dogs. (Tasteless joke!) Right now, my stepbrother has it.
He owns a local towing company and auto mechanics’ shop. I assume the family connection will prevent me from getting screwed–in the financial sense, you sickos–by my mechanic. Apparently I need a new radiator, and it will set me back over $200. My car’s in his shop until next Wednesday. In the meantime, I’m driving his gigantic quad-cab diesel Chevy Silverado pickup with topper and monster truck tires.
This thing is the size of a fucking aircraft carrier. It is the biggest vehicle I have ever driven in my life. I’m only 5′1″, so I need a stepladder to even reach the step that allows me to get behind the steering wheel. Today at work, while wearing a dress, I did a spectacular jump just to reach the driver’s seat because I wasn’t getting enough leverage with the step and the stepladder. Thanks to the physics of clingy spandex, half of the parking lot got to see my ass in the process.
My stepbrother’s wife, upon hearing the latest chapter in the ongoing saga with Penny, has decided I need to get a personalized license plate when my vehicle registration comes up for renewal this January. Montana’s license plates, like the rest of the nation, can only fit seven letters and/or numbers. No matter the final arrangement, she thinks it should read “Bad Juju”.