I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XX: Goddammit ... And Then There Was Light?

You know our girl Fancy? The Countess of Monte Cristo? The Lincoln Town Car of Much Woes? There are so many posts about this car that it's just easier if you go back and read through my whole I Have the Worst Luck with Cars series; plus, ugh, I am sick of that car.

And why is this? Well, let me tell you.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XIX: I Have the Right of Way!!

Well, thankfully, since our last vehicular adventure, nothing has really happened to Fancy (or to any cars around me), so I am going with Retro I Have the Worst Luck with Cars!

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XVIII: The Fourth Is Rubber

This weekend brought with it the celebration of the fourth year of my marriage to Three, a wonderful human being that I am privileged to know and love. And, of course, since it's us, our anniversary also involves a car's minor destruction.

I suppose this requires a bit of back story. Without delving too deeply into specifics, Three has been looking for another job for a few months now ... well, when he can, which is pretty much never, since he was given no vacation or sick time when he took this new job back in April, but it wasn't until a few weeks ago that anything came up. Then, an old friend gave texted him, letting him know about a job opportunity in South Carolina. Three, desperate to change his situation, sent his resume over and nailed an interview on November 15. Coincidentally, that date is also our anniversary, so we decided to make a trip of it. After all, the company interviewing him was paying us for our gas and for our hotel room.

So, there we were. His interview had gone well*, we'd just eaten some exceptionally good Indian food, and were headed back to the hotel to watch some sort of movie when BAM. Out of nowhere, a big curb jutted out into what appeared to be a driving lane. The car was knocked around, and when I pulled to a stop - because of COURSE I was driving - Three jumped out to examine the damage.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XVI: People in Lines Are Dicks

So remember when I said that I had my motorcycle for about a month before I burst into flame because of a faulty heat shield? Well, this story takes place before that lovely incident, but the results of my actions on that day, like my third degree burns on my right calf, still affect my regular life up until this very minute and will likely continue through the end of my life.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XV: A Plague on My House

I think everyone reaches that point in their lives where they just sit back and say, "You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it all." Ladies and gentlemen? I have reached that point when it comes to the topic of cars.

If you've been reading for a while, you'll remember that Fancy, our 1999 Lincoln towncar has had her issues. We get the oil changed regularly, and we use 93-grade gasoline (even when we can't really afford it). It's an older car, so I get that there would be some maintenance work that would need to be done, but it's now getting officially ridiculous.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XIV: It Spreads Again

Back in 2006, I was driving down the road from my apartment, going to meet my then-boyfriend at a show for which he was doing sound, and as I pulled around a corner, I noticed that a firetruck was on the side of the road, trying to put out a raging fire that had engulfed a Bronco. One of the non-firefighting firefighters waved for me to stop, since the flames were starting to get unruly, and when I came to a complete stop - well away from the vehicle - it suddenly exploded. For real exploded. The blast sent one of the firemen flying backward a couple of feet, and a plume of fire reached for the sky. Thankfully, no one was injured badly (I have no idea where the driver was), and I had a cool story to tell my friends when I arrived in downtown Nashville.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XIII: It Spreads

I wrote this post well before Fancy decided to fall apart, and I'm actually laughing right now as I reread my somewhat optimistic attitude toward the car. I mean, I actually wrote, "Like I've said in a previous post, the car has its issues, mostly stemming from a former owner who just didn't give a single shit about her car, but it drives well and only gives us real problems when it gets crap gas."

These are not happy tears of laughter.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XII: Seriously, Fuck All the Cars

This is me, flipping off the world.

I don't know why I'm surprised anymore that this sort of thing happens to vehicles I own. And yet, every single time, I'm all, "OMG I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED." However, I think I may have just reached the extent of my willingness to be optimistic when it comes to cars.

I have the worst luck with cars, Part XI: You Had ONE Chance, Fancy

You know, I was really hoping that I could end the IHtWLwC series with Part X, partially because it's a lovely number but mainly because oh, dear God, I am just fucking sick and tired of crap cars.

To be fair, though, Fancy is actually a good car. She's solidly built, has leather seats, and we don't get pulled over in Franklin anymore for the crime of driving while poor. But it just so happens that, during the years of 1998 and 1999, the powers that be at Ford Motor Company decided to be frugal. And by frugal, I mean cheapskates.

I'm not a car person and don't know the technical terms for everything, although being married to a Car Guy has taught me more, but here's the basic rundown. The intake manifold, in all the years except for 1998 and 1999, was made out of metal and was a durable piece of machinery. Then, some bright person in a board room was like, "We need to figure out how to cut some of the costs down on manufacturing," so another highly intelligent individual was like, "Oh, I know! We'll make the intake manifold out of plastic! That sounds like a great idea! Send it to the board." I also don't know anything about business.

Now, this may all sound good on paper, but it really doesn't make sense to me to use plastic in anything that is constantly under the pressure of extreme heat. And I'd be right because they actually issued a recall for these model years and replaced the entire manifold for every single town car.

Except ours. Because the previous owner just didn't do it for whatever reason.

Fucking old people, not reading their mail.

About a month after we got Fancy, she started acting funny. It wasn't anything too bad at first. It would just jerk a bit once in a while. Three thought it might just need a fuel system clean since it seemed to resolve itself once he pushed down on the accelerator. But then, it just got progressively worse, and now, the car can just sit there and it's choking for air. There are little cracks everywhere in the manifold but because it's plastic, you can't just get some JB Weld and hope for the best. Three has spent so much money on coolant that we might as well just throw money at Prestone. At first, we thought that we might be able to go to Pull-a-Part* and find the part we needed, but then we found out that 1) it's not just one part - it's the entire fucking manifold thingy; 2) it's an incredibly time-consuming job that requires you to remove the entire engine; and 3) you need a specific tool that only registered mechanics can purchase. And then the kicker: it could cost us between $600 and $1500.

Upon discovering this, I might have had some type of mental breakdown.

Luckily, though, the guy from whom we bought Fancy is being incredibly helpful and put us in contact with a mechanic that's giving us a good deal on fixing this issue. And then my dad, being the wonderful creature that he is, let us borrow his truck while it's in the shop, so we've definitely had some good karma thrown our way. But shit if this isn't frustrating. I mean, I guess I should be thankful that I have a car, period, and that it seems to have avoided Chiquita's penchant for attracting nails to the tires, but all I can really do is just shrug and pout about it.

It's almost as if the universe wants me to follow up on my threat to buy that pony I've always wanted.

* Pull-a-Part and their ilk are some of the best business ideas ever, although I find it slightly creepy to walk down the aisles and aisles of essentially car corpses. It kind of reminds me of a scene out of "The Brave Little Toaster."

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part IX: Yeah, I Am Officially Done with Aveos

So. We meet again, Bad Luck Car Fairy. I swear, I hate you and wish you were dead. And I don't say that about every fake fairy I come across. But you? You can rot in Fairy Hell.

Anyway, Chiquita's kind of been acting weird the past few weeks, but we were all, "Oh, lahdeedah, you are an Aveo and you could die on is at any moment and we drive on faaaaiiiithhhhhh!"

Three adds a seductive shimmy in between the jazz hands but he's a more daring physical artiste than I.

You kind of have to be that blindly optimistic when dealing with anything Aveo, as you can probably recall from my bitching about them at every chance I get.

Now, do not fear, the bitch is driveable*. It's just that there's a rag in place of the oil cap and oil nearly everywhere in the ... engine area. I don't know what it's called; I'm not a car person. Shut up. Moving on. I don't really know how the oil cap was misplaced. It could have been gone for months and I wouldn't have known the difference. Except that I probably totally could because I noted as I was driving Three into work that it was smoking a little bit more than usual**.

He pooh-poohed my concern with a, "I tell you every time what's going on and you're freaking out again," and I half-heartedly agreed with him. Ever since Roxy went out in a blaze of glory, I've been a little on edge with cars + fires, but can you really blame me? I mean, for fuck's sake, my leg caught fire once; I'm allowed to be a little skittish.

I dropped Three off at work and idled in the parking lot for a minute or two talking to one of his coworkers and one of our mutual friends, oddly enough about 1) the smoke and 2) the fact that our car is a piece of absolute shit. I made it about ten minutes away when I got a call from Three, who was a little uncharacteristically gruff.

Three: You need to come back to the plant.
Me: Now?
Three: Yes.
Me: Why?
Three: Because [friend] said that he saw a big puddle of oil left where you were sitting and the engine will lock up if you lose too much and just come back here so I can see what's going on.
Me: Are you mad at me? What did I do?
Three: I'm just busy at work and ugh. I hate our car.
Me: (SIGH) ME. TOO.

After pulling into the parking lot, Three came out, looking not too thrilled with the situation, but thankfully, he's also a mechanic and yay***. With one look under the hood, he sighed, "Great." Like I said above, the oil cap has magically gone missing. I don't know who steals an oil cap or if the stupid thing just jumped shit. Maybe it's better if we're left in the dark. Anyway, the afore mentioned rag was stuffed into the hole, and we cleaned up the oil on the manifold as best we could.

Now, for some reason, I was tasked with finding the replacement oil cap. Actually, Three had to return to work, where he apparently does stuff for money, so I guess I really was the only choice. However, I am very limited in my car terminology knowledge. The only reason I know that there's a manifold (and I'm not really sure what exactly the manifold is?) is because Three told me so, and he wouldn't be on the phone or in person with me. Don't get me wrong. I can change a tire, my oil, check the pressure - you know, basic stuff, but that's about the extent of my car know-how. After spending my entire life as a woman, I kind of expect people at the car places to try and rip me off****. I do, though, have an ability to read people pretty well, so I've been able to avoid most scams. On the phone, it's a little easier to do, so I took to calling the various locations that all located at least fifteen minutes away from where I am. None are located in Cool Springs, where Three works, which is bizarre to me. They have literally everything else, but not auto parts shops. And guess what. None of them carry the oil cap. Not a single one. Not even the fucking Chevy dealer, and the dealer was the only one who could order it. Of course.

It's like they hate me as much as I hate them.

Luckily, I got all the words right and the guy didn't seem like he was trying to price-gouge me. I'm still letting Three pick up the oil cap on Friday, though. I'm planning on spending the whole day on the computer, catching up on NaNo*****.

But this just got both of us thinking about a couple of things.

First, we're trying to start a family and having reliable and safe transportation is kind of important. And Chiquita is not really either; it's small and could possibly just crap out on us whenever. I mean, look at what happened to Roxy. One day, she was working fine; the next? Dead and useless. Now, we have Three's old boss partly to thank for that, due to his shoddy work, but still.

Second, since I'm self-employed and just starting out my writing career, we're kind of dependent on Three's income right now, and if he can't get to work because of a crapped out car? Yeah. That won't work. It might be easier when and if we get a place closer to his job, but right now, that's not really an option.

So, to Craigslist we go. I've found a couple of options, all of which are awesomely 80s land yachts:

1995 Lincoln Town Car

1985 Oldsmobile Delta 88

Neither of these is the actual car we're looking at, but seriously, I get excited each time I look at them. I have wanted one of these giants since Gladys went to Car Heaven. For those of you who didn't have the pleasure of knowing the wonderfulness that was Gladys, she was a 1995 Buick Century that might as well have been one of these:

Say what you want about the Nazis; they knew how to build tanks.

It was a beautiful piece of machinery. And if I find a decent example of a Buick Century, I will probably try to persuade Three that we need that car. Except that now that I'm looking at the other cars, I'm a little torn. I love the boxy look, and the town car reminds me of my mom's parents' car when I was younger. That thing was as old as I was and it didn't stop working until ... I think I was almost out of high school? Now, it did catch fire in my grandfather's garage, but I think that was kind of a freak accident. That's what I'm choosing to believe, anyway.

And I'm hoping that maybe by buying a car that isn't necessarily prone to, oh, you know, suddenly break down because the manufacturers kind of thought it would be okay just to kind of throw some shit in a box and shake it around and then go, BOOM: CAR. Then again, my car luck tends to follow me, but I'm a positive thinker.

POSITIVE. THINKER.

SOLIDARITY. WITH WHAT? I DON'T KNOW.

Damn, I just don't wanna do a IHtWLwC, Part X.

* Okay, so the stupid spellcheck on here says that both driveable and drivable are incorrect (or so say the squiggly red lines), so whatever. Ironically, so is spellcheck. :shrugs:
** For clarification purposes, a leaky valve cover gasket is the reason that the damned thing occasionally has a case of the oil-fume farts. We just haven't had the money or time to fix it. Mostly money, though. Sigh.
*** In details that will make my mother vomit, I find him incredibly sexy when he's sweaty and covered in oil. Goes back to Ye Olde Daiyes, when we were young and he was still employed by Satan R Us (aka Valvoline).
**** I'm looking at you, Firestone.
***** The election kind of kept me occupied on Tuesday, and then I spent all Wednesday trying to catch up on all the errands I was going to run before the oil cap went AWOL.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part VIII: Drivers and Deer Are Dicks

Well, I thought the last post in this series would finally rid me of the bad car juju I have following me around, but hahahaha, who am I actually kidding. This shit won't go away until I'm in the grave. Although, honestly, this is more about the luck I have while inside vehicles, not really the vehicle itself, which of course is still an Aveo.

Thursday was taxing, to say the least. I left a little early from work to go pick up Three to take him to work and found myself in standstill traffic. There's an AM radio station that gives you up-to-date information in regards to road situations, but it's not really the clearest station. Like, you can kind of hear it when you roll up your windows and get to a certain spot on the interstate, squint your eyes and get really close to the speakers. Then you can hear "traffic" and "interstate" and "1680AM" in between various sounds of static. So of course, it's kind of useless. But that's Tennessee for you.

Anyway, there are flashy yellow lights on the side of the road with signs saying tune into the above mentioned station, which I do although previous experience told me to do otherwise. I hear the expected static and continue driving, going past several exits that in retrospect I wish I would have taken. But hindsight = 20/20. And then the cars just stopped moving. I was sitting still for nearly 45 minutes, calling Three every fifteen minutes or so to update him on my lack of progress.

Me: You should probably call your boss to tell him you're going to be late.
Three: Where are you?
Me: About two feet from where I was 10 minutes ago.
Three: Awesome.

As it turns out, there was a huge wreck involving two semis and at least two other vehicles, so I said a little prayer for those in the wreck and then sat in traffic more, pissed off. And I fell in love with this Mercedes SUV driver behind me, who was getting fed up with jerks who apparently thought they were special snowflakes who could use the shoulder to get ahead of everyone. The guy pulled out in the middle of the shoulder and just sat there. And that was my only source of glee until I finally got to my exit and busted ass to get home, so Three would only be sort of late to work. Unfortunately, I left him at work with no way to get food and he didn't have enough time to stop at Taco Bell* to pick up some stuff. So I promised to come back and take him to lunch at 6.

I got back to work and stayed there until about 5:15, giving me plenty of time to get back to Three. Or so I thought.

Because yay! Titans game! Dumbass people wandering around with beer coolers in their hands, ticket scalpers trying weird tactics to get you to buy their tickets**, and random streets blocked by irritated police officers. I called up Three around 5:58 and said, "Seriously, fuck this day. This is the second traffic jam I've had to deal with today, and at least the first one was legitimate. This is just for a stupid throw the ball and run venue. I hate everything."

Three told me not to worry and that we'd just go for dinner when I got there, which eased my tension a little bit.

Until I got to stupid Franklin, AKA WASP Central.*** I'm on I-65, which is usually not a bad road to be on most of the time. But this jackass in a white pickup truck was all, "Herpaderp, I'm going to drive like an asshole, swerving and shit because I have to text while I'm driving! Yay!" He nearly hit me three times, going in and out of his lane. On the fourth time, I honked at him and started gesturing to his phone and mouthing, "Get off your phone, you fucking asshole." Instead of thinking, "Well, it's probably a good idea that I get off of my phone because I'm endangering everyone on the road right now," this douche canoe decides that the best and mature way to handle someone that he's nearly hit now four times is to flip them off. Which just sent waves of chilly anger all over my body. He continued on his merry way, with his wife or girlfriend or whatever she was in the passenger seat who could have done the texting for him, but whatever, and I got off of the interstate, arriving at Three's work all in a tizzy, taking me nearly fifteen minutes to chill. But I got to have a nice dinner with the husband, which kind of made up for the whole thing.

The ride home was essentially uneventful, which was a blessing. I spent the next few hours talking to some of my friends online and tweeting random tweets. When it was time to go, I posted this:

I'm not saying that I'm psychic or anything, but my bad luck with cars just reared its ugly head again.

Less than five miles away from my apartment, a jackass deer ran into my car. Let me say it again: A JACKASS DEER RAN INTO MY CAR. One ran right in front of me, which  I saw and avoided by slowing down, but the other one? Smashed into the side. I hear BANG and then a crunching noise. Of course, I freaked out and pulled over. This poor deer was lying in the middle of the road, and I was sure it was dead. It wasn't very old, either, because it wasn't very big and I was able to move it to the side of the road, bawling the whole time. I was part scared, part pissed off, and part depressed over taking a life. Zola, who was in the car with me, couldn't figure out what was going on and just looked at me warily as I called both Three and my mom. Three spent about two minutes trying to decipher my words between sobs, and once he'd accomplished that made sure that I was okay and that the car was driveable. Mom, of course, made sure that I was okay and commiserated with me on the shock. Many years ago, she ran over a black lab and I think it still haunts her.

I was able to calm down enough to get back to driving, only a few minutes late to pick up Three, who rushed out to hug me and then inspect the damage, with his supervisor close behind him. Being me, I hadn't even checked to see what the car looked like because I was hauling a deer carcass out of the road. But luckily, it didn't really look like there was too much damage. I mean, there was a giant ... dent? Dent doesn't seem to be the right word. The large size of the ... dent, I guess, seems to warrant a more grandiose term.

Needless to say, I asked Three to drive, and I wanted to stop by the deer to make sure it was dead. When we drove past the spot where I'd moved the deer, though, it was gone, and I was all, "Behuwah? Where'd it go?" I was partly worried that coyotes had gotten the poor thing, but Three seemed to think that maybe I'd just knocked the deer out when it hit the car. I chose to believe the latter, as I don't want an animal to suffer and coyotes are dicks.

I've given up driving for a while, or at least until I absolutely have to get behind the wheel. Which unfortunately right now is going to be Monday morning. Sighhhhhhhhh. Maybe I'll just take the bus.

* Seriously, the cantina bowl is amazing. Try it out and you will be happy.

** This one guy accosted me at my open window: "BUY MY TICKET!!" I responded with a, "If you don't get out of my window, I am going to punch you in the face. You have no idea how much happiness that would bring me." He left me alone after that.

*** I hate WASPs. Like actually hate. Driving where many of them congregate just ... gets me mad? I don't know. It's hard to explain. I guess it's because I grew up in the exceptionally vapid society that sends a person into a dependency on antidepressants, and it irks me that it's considered the best way to be. Because they are rich. Or whatever. Ugh, I'm going to stop talking about it now because it's gettin' my dander up, whatever that actually means.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part VII: Aveos Are Grounds for Divorce

Ahhh, you thought I was finished, did you?? You clearly are underestimating the Bad Luck Fairy's hold on my car life.

Before Three and I met, we both decided that we should get identical cars, in case we should ever cross paths. So we both purchased one Chevy Aveo each. He bought a 2004 yellow hatchback with a sunroof and manual transmission (Chiquita), and I bought a 2005 red hatchback automatic (Roxy). When we finally came across each other that fateful day in August 2010, he actually made a comment which was totally awkward because I had no idea what he was talking about.

Me: Where is my car? Is it done?
Three: Oh, it's in the front. I parked it out there. Or maybe I just wanted a red one instead! Hahahah!
Me: ... What?
Three: Oh. Uh, you don't live inside my head. Um, I have one, too?
Me: Oh. Okay.

We were FATED, okay?

Well, as it is well known, at least in my home and on this blog, that Aveos are crap cars. Chevy makes good trucks, Impalas, and Malibus. Aveos? No. They are marketed to poor college students for a reason. Great on gas mileage, not so much for anything else. Three and I frequently bond over this fact, and we have a small fake-money pool for when we think Chiquita is going to keel over and die. Kind of like how Roxy went out in a blaze of glory.

Three was still working for Satan Valvoline, and they were having a deal on all their services on Saturday, so I figured, hell, I'll just take the car down for an oil change and maybe a transmission flush or something. Why not?* I got there early, mainly so I could help Three and his employees set up this tent thingy that you needed a physics degree to erect (haha, erect) but also, hey, discounts! And also a chance to be a bitch to his area manager. I think I was the first person in line, which is only fair since I was there since, like, seven that morning, but when I pulled into the bay, it started raining. I should have taken that as a sign.

A little back story here. Three had just taken over this store a few months prior as a brand new general manager and had previously had a pretty decent area manager, named Lance. Lance was a skeezeball**, but he let Three be since he got results. Now, he thought it was because Three was being underhanded, when in fact, customers were just happy someone was being straight and honest with them. And this store was in a poorer section of town, so it was even harder to get good numbers like the bigwigs wanted. Then, Scott (cue clown music) is given an area manager position. Scott is a dickball. He just is. He's a bald (on purpose) idiot who thinks he's awesome because ... well, I'm not sure. He's as dumb as a pot roast and he "tooken English classes and got the honors."

Just an example:

Scott: So what's going on with this lady?
Three: Well, she's been rather cavalier about this whole car maintenance process -
Scott: Wait, she has a Cavalier, too?
Three: ... No, she has a cavalier attitude.
Scott: Now, you listen here. Just because our customers have Cavaliers does not mean they have bad attitudes.
Three: ... I have to go.

Yeah, there you go. He's also tenacious. When Three was doing a Christmas charity, he was written up for not getting enough people to donate. In a poor area of town. That was probably receiving the charity in the first place. When Three's store didn't make the necessary numbers, he would force Three to work seven days a week, open to close ... because that will change something. Somehow. So, dumb and aggressive is this guy. And also why I relished the notion of being an unrepentant bitch to him.

After the oil was changed, I told the technician that I wanted a flush or ... honestly, I can't remember. But it was another service they offered. A line had started to build, and Scott wanted to make sure he could eke as much money out of every person possible, so he asked me to pull out over to the side, where they would do the flush or whatever. This was a bad idea for two reasons:

1) It was outside, away from cameras.
2) Scott was going to be doing it, and as I've already proven, he is a moron.

But Three seemed to think it was okay, but I blame that on him being exhausted (he had only slept 4 hours the night before and was going on 70 hours that week) and overwhelmed with shit to do. I really should have trusted my instincts. This goofy technician (he sounded like Kermit the Frog) was blundering around with the machine, and they were having a hard time keeping the rain, which had started to just pour from the sky, out of the engine. The entire time, I was thinking, "I really shouldn't even be getting this done."

Everything seemed to go okay, and I gave Three a kiss and headed back to the apartment to go back to bed.

It was about a week later, as I was driving to Three's store, that my lapse in trusting my judgment bit me in the ass. I was driving on I-24 and coming up on the exit when I noticed that 1) the red check engine light was coming on and 2) there was smoke billowing out from under the hood.

So you know:

Thankfully, I was only about two seconds away from the store, and I pulled into the parking lot with my hands in the air (I drive with my knees with greater skill than my hands, a trick learned while smoking) in frustration. Three opens the hood and, sure enough, the procedure conducted a week prior had pulled loose something that made the coolant and oil (with a little bit of gasoline) mix and spray everywhere. And so now the car is fucked beyond repair. Sure, we could probably replace a whole bunch of shit (probably the whole engine, actually, if our mechanic friend is to be believed***) but that would be more than the car is worth. My dad ended up helping us tow Roxy back to our apartment complex, where she to this day sits. She looks fine. She just can't drive more than a few feet. And so we're stuck with Chiquita, who is paid for so I can't really complain.

Except that I do.

Lesson learned: never go to Valvoline for anything. Also, don't buy an Aveo.

* This, followed by a dramatic, life-altering event, could be considered the pattern of my life, actually.

** Skeezeballs also get fired for asking a female employee to show him her tits, despite what they may tell you.

*** He is.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part VI: How I Met Your Father

Roxy makes lots of visits in this series because she is an Aveo. It's almost like she belongs here among complaints of stupid car shit. But I can say that I would not have met my husband if it wasn't for this damned thing.

It is a hot, bright sunny day in Nashville on August 21, 2010, and I am going to be driving to Atlanta to visit a friend that next weekend. I want to be sure my car would be good for the trip, so I stop in the Valvoline closest to my parents' house. I was living there at the time since working for the state wasn't exactly helpful in ways of paying rent by myself. The second I pull up to wait, I notice this guy: a curly-headed, olive-skinned dude wearing a Valvoline hat and rocking his work pants. Another guy working there directs me behind what I later found out was Bay 3, and I reluctantly park there, the whole time trying to discreetly check out the curly-headed guy.

My luck apparently changes because Bay 1 opened up (Three later told me the customer suddenly changed his mind and only wanted an oil change - FATE!!) and Curly-Head motions for me to come over there. He flashes me this smile and I giggled.

Okay, I have absolutely never giggled at a guy before; at least, not in this sort of situation. I feel like such a moron and try to cover it up, but he notices and ugh. I tell him what I need, he nods, and guides me into the bay. I think I mouth "OH MY GOD" at least fifteen times to myself as I watch him move around. Seriously, his ass? A sight to behold.

When it comes time to recharge my A/C, he asks me to go into the lobby and wait until everything was done. I can't leer at him anymore, so I grab my phone and try to distract myself with whatever game I had then. Maybe Brick Breaker? To my delight, he comes into the lobby.

"Well, it looks like you'll need a new battery soon, but I wouldn't worry about it for -"

"It's okay. Just put a new one in."

He has this shocked expression on his face, and I immediately regretted it, but oh well. He smiles - again, that smile - and says, "Oh, hey, by the way, I like your paint."

I have a tattoo down the center of my back that was inspired by Polish folk art and I was wearing a very skimpy tank top (it was hot out, okay? I wasn't planning on getting all flirty with a Valvoline employee), so of course he can see it. But I am all, "OMG, HE WAS WATCHING ME AS I WALKED AWAY SQUEEEEE!"

The tattoo in question.

I go on to explain that it was in honor of my grandmother who was Polish and that I had brought the artist about four or five different images I wanted him to use as references. Basically, I am sputtering and trying to give him a reason to stay. He looks out into the bay area and then sighs, deciding to take a break.

Of course, my head is all going places and thinking things and yet not able to actually form words. He's like, "God, it's hot out there," and I'm like, "Yeah, it's hot as balls. Not that I ... have balls. But I would imagine that this is what that would ... feel like??" It was just so headdesky that, looking back on it, I'm surprised he showed any interest in me at all.

But I digress. How is this about a lack of car luck?

WELL. Let me tell you.

As it turns out, I have an Aveo. I may have mentioned this before. The car keeps having issues, and I go back to Valvoline to get these things fixed. And despite what you're thinking, these are all legitimate things. Basically, my two rear lights are not working, which initially is blamed on the new battery. Then they figure out it must be a sensor, so Three sends me to NTB, National Tire something or other, just down the street. I drive away, and unbeknownst to me, Three is thinking, "Damn, I may never see her again. Well, maybe she'll come back to get her oil changed in three months." Well, NTB tells me, "Hey, you have to go to your dealer because we don't do sensors."

If you remember, Carmax is my dealer and I had vowed never, ever to have anything to do with them again, so I'm more than a little reluctant to comply. Now, Three had called me from his cell phone regarding the battery arriving, so I figure, what the hell. I text him: "Hey, this is Juju. I just wanted to thank you for all the help you've giving me, but I have one more favor to ask. NTB is telling me I have to go to Carmax. Can you think of anyone else that might be able to help me?"

I wait a few seconds after sending, mentally flogging myself, but he calls me!

His first words: "Yeah, that's crap. I'll fix it for you. Can you come to the store tomorrow?"

Of course I say yes. And of course he asks me out* and of course we go on a second date the next night** and OMG I'm completely infatuated and then I remember, God, I have to go to Atlanta this weekend. I think about canceling but realize that's a really shitty thing to do. So I'm down in Atlanta, the whole time trying to stay focused on my friend who keeps fucking asking me about Three, and actually have a lot of fun. We stay in my friend's friend's condo which is amazing and has a hot tub. We go to the botanical gardens and we eat incredible food, all the while I'm avoiding thinking about Three. Then, the day I'm supposed to go back, my car is dead. Completely.

The fuck? According to the neighbor, my brake lights were on the whole time, even after I'd turned off the car on Friday night. Awesome. My friend helps me jump the car, and I immediately call Three to tell him what happened. He's concerned but assures me that he'll look into it when I get home. On my way back to Nashville, I notice that the radio isn't working and that the clock is now permanently set at 1:00. And none of the cigarette lighter things that I used to charge up my phone were functioning. Great. I hadn't charged my phone that night since I was assuming I could do so in my car, so I'm hoping now that no giant tragedies occur. And if you know anything about me, this hope is actually very much needed. 

Now, if you'll notice from reading my other posts, nope, none of the above problems were fixed. And Roxy is officially dead and waiting to be transported back to Carmax as we speak. But! I have an awesome husband, Valvoline is no longer a part of our lives, and Three's ass is still bangin'. 

* At first I'm nervous and I say, "God, I'm tired." He cocks his head to the side and says, "Well, that probably precludes my next question, but I'm going to ask anyway. Do you want to go grab a drink?" He had me at "precludes."

** And there may or may not have been some outdoor, park bench sex.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part V: Why I Wondered If My Mom Secretly Hated Me

When I was forced to get braces, I wasn't too keen on the idea of pain of the face. Even now, I will brave a migraine, limp on a kinda-broken ankle, attempt to do a strenuous workout after hurting my back from leaning over to pick up lettuce*, but face pain? Nope. I'm a fucking baby about it. I'll cry and whine and usually get my way of having some type of extreme pain reliever once I leave the dentist. But because my parents had the money and the overbearing will to compel my teeth to conform to Hollywood prettiness, I ended up in the scary chair where they attach metal and wires to your teeth.

As if it wasn't bad enough that I was a walking lightning rod, there were the regular checkups. I particularly hated these and hoped every time that they'd forget to adjust my braces. For days afterwards, it would hurt to eat, to talk, etc. And, like I said above, I was a whining brat about it the whole time. I figured, if I had to be miserable, so would everyone else. I'd even try to be late so my orthodontist, Dr. Gluck, would reschedule, which he never fucking did because I think he actually hated all people (but especially me). And so began what was a seemingly normal day: it was 8:30A and my appointment was at 8:15A and we were just entering the parking lot for Dr. Gluck's office.

To be fair, my mom is perpetually late. Everywhere. All the time. It's almost a gift of sorts. It's not that she doesn't try to be on time, but she most always is at least fifteen minutes late. And that's on a good day. When I was still in school and I'd call my mom to see when she'd be coming home, our exchanges went a little something like this:

Me: Hi, Mom. It's five. When are you coming home?
Mom: Oh, give me about thirty more minutes. Can you start the potatoes so they'll be ready when I get there?
Me: Is this normal-people-thirty-minutes or Mom-thirty-minutes?
Mom: What does that mean?
Me: Seriously? We have this conversation at least once a day.
Mom: I don't know. I'm busy.
Me: Well, I'd kind of like to know, because the potatoes will probably be one giant burned lump if we go by Mom-thirty-minutes.
Mom: Where's your father?

I think Dr. Gluck had at some point talked to my mother about my constant tardiness, because on this fateful morning, my mom was a little panicky that we were so late. It's not that it hadn't bothered her before, but for some reason, she seemed more out of sorts about it. She was pulling up to the front of the building and demanded, "Get out here and I'll go park."

So I step out. It all happened so quickly that it's kind of hard to remember exactly how everything transpired, but my best recollection was this:

I set my foot on the pavement and the car was still moving. The sole of my sandal landed but didn't stick, so it slid. Right in the way of the still-in-motion rear tire.

And that's when my mom ran over me. In front of witnesses, too.

The building in which Dr. Gluck's office was located housed several other businesses, like a mattress store and a regular dentist office, which on this day had just opened. About four dental hygienists and five waiting patients saw this whole sordid scene through giant glass windows. I'm guessing they thought it was early morning entertainment.

Okay, now, back to what was actually going on.

So my foot is underneath the tire and I am screaming at my mom to reverse. My sister, who is in the seat next to me, is telling her the exact opposite for some fucking reason. Because she would know??

Sister: OH MY GOD GO FORWARD!!
Me: OH MY GOD GO BACKWARD!!
Sister: NO GO FORWARD!!
Me: YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!! I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WANTED TO BE AN ONLY CHILD!!
Mom: OH MY GOD I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING!!

She's rolling back and forth on my poor right** foot. Several times. And everyone inside that dentist's office is just gawking at the sight. Why no one came to my rescue still pisses me off slightly. This was in the years prior to reality TV, so maybe I should have seen that genre coming. Oh, well.

Anyway, Mom's senses finally took hold of her shocked brain and she rolled off my foot. The rest of my body just kind of fell to the ground, and I was kind of in this weird in-between state of "Do I feel pain?" and "What in the absolute hell just happened?" and "Yes, I think I hurt." As if on cue, the dentist's people came rushing out, fawning over me, and my mother had to go into Dr. Gluck's office to tell him she'd have to reschedule my appointment for a day that I wasn't run over by a car. HER car. I'm not sure how that went since I was sitting in the dentist's office with a sucker and a bag of ice on my foot. And my braces were not going to be tightened.

All in all, it was a good day.

I still have the little round scar where my foot was basically ground into the asphalt. And to this day, I will never open a door until a car has come to a complete stop. I will never let my mom live this down, either. She'll bring up something that I've done recently and I'll quip, "Yeah, well, you remember when you nearly killed me with your car? And how you were almost going to go with Stef's suggestion of GOING FORWARD?? Yeah, your argument is invalid."

* All of these are true.
** You know, I'm starting to think that my right side is cursed. My right leg gets third degree burns. My right ankle is the one that broke (one of the tiny bones that you apparently use but don't realize it) a few weeks ago. I nearly split open my right knee that one time. This list could go on forever.

I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part III: Carmax Is Evil

Now, this story is not as exciting or death-defying as the others, but it is a morality tale of how Carmax is an evil entity and how you should never under any circumstances purchase a vehicle from them.

Anyway, remember that Mah-gret died? Well, now I needed a car because it's hard to go job searching and then to actual job without one. My parents had just purchased a car for my sister from Carmax and had a wonderful experience and blah blah blah, so they were encouraging me to do the same. They took me to the same store on July 4, 2007, and I found the perfect little car: a 2005 Saturn Ion that I named Izzie.

To be completely honest, I really loved this car. It was cheap; it was good on gas; it was small; etc etc etc. It was just basically made out of plastic, and we all know that Saturn went under shortly after I bought Izzie, so ... I guess I should have expected it, regardless of my past unluckiness with things of the transportation sort.

I had the damned thing for three weeks, and then one afternoon as I got into the car to drive to work, I noticed that the dash thingy was reading, "Low coolant" or something like that. I turned Izzie off, got on my hands and knees, and looked under the car for leaks. There were none. Um, okay? I thought maybe they just hadn't topped her off or something at Carmax and decided, alright, I'll go down to Walmart and buy some coolant. I got no more than maybe half a mile from work and I realized, "Shit, my tire is flat."

Hahahaha, oh, why does this always happen to me? I sardonically laughed to myself. I had a spare tire and proceeded to replace it at a gas station* and drove over to Walmart to pick up some coolant. I poured it in and thought, DONE!

Oh, but it would not be so. About a week later, the same message flashed across my dash AGAIN. I called up Carmax and they were all, "Oh, just bring it in and we'll look at it." Which I did. The girl at the front, Stephanie, I believe, asked me how long I'd had the car.

"I bought it on July 4th."

She looked at me and asked, "Last year?"

I shook my head. "THIS year."

She laughed sympathetically and offered to set me up with a rental car, for which they would pay. Now, it ended up being a fucking PT Cruiser that smelled like ass and a landfill, but at least it had coolant in it. I even let my friends smoke in the thing, which oddly enough made it smell better.

Carmax had Izzie for about a week when they called me to tell me that they had no idea what was wrong with the car but that she didn't seem to have any leaks and I could come pick her up whenever. I didn't have to wait too long when I got there, thankfully, and I was grateful that I worked nights, since this whole process would have been a nightmare otherwise. Again, I thought, DONE!

Nope.

About a week and half later, the same message popped up. I leaned my head back and just screamed, "Are you FUCKING kidding me? Oh, no, you are NOT, you whore of a car." And I checked under the hood; the coolant reservoir was BONE DRY. After I'd filled it less than three weeks prior. Instead of waiting until I calmed down, I called Carmax right the hell then, which might or might not have been the best idea, but they told me to drive down again in the morning because it was 4P and they were closed. Thankfully, I had a bicycle to ride to work, and I was less than a ten minute ride away. When I got to work that day, my boss couldn't figure out why I wasn't wanting to talk to my tables, but once I explained the situation, he just let me run food the whole night. I couldn't sleep at all once I left work because, well, I couldn't leave until 4A, and it would be silly to get only three hours of sleep. When I showed up at Carmax's doors at 7:30A, I'm sure I looked a fright: all black clothing, overnight makeup, surly expression. I was not pleased.

In order to keep this from being a novel-length post, let's just say that this KEPT. ON. HAPPENING. Carmax couldn't figure it out. They even drove the car to the service manager's house (which I later found out was just car speak for "we have no idea what's going on so let's put some miles on this thing to pretend like we're doing something") and back to Carmax, but could not give me any answers.

Actual quote from me: "Look, if it's not leaking, where is this coolant going? Coolant heaven? Are there coolant eating gremlins that live in my driveway??"

Izzie had been in my possession for four months, only one of which I was actually driving her. Carmax eventually took away the PT Cruiser and my insurance helped get me in a rental car (a Mazda 6, which OMG, I STILL WANT ONE OF THOSE) for the remainder of the time. I was absolutely fed up with the whole situation and was about to get the general manager involved, when MAGICALNESS, the service manager called me up to tell me, "Oh, it's the head gasket. It's blown."

Um, what? How long had this been the case? Couldn't they have been able to tell that the head gasket was fucked up? She couldn't give me an explanation. Then she offered to give me a new engine.

"Like brand new, never been used or touched by you guys?"

"No, it's a used engine. It only has 21,000 miles on it, which is less than is on your engine."

I laughed at her. "You are kidding, right?"

"Ma'am, we stand behind this engine."

"Yeah, I'm sure you do. But you also stood behind the current one, and look where that got me."

She tried to haggle with me for about thirty minutes, and my brain was nearly roasting, I was so pissed. Eventually, I was just like, "Look, fine, put in the new engine, but I want a different car."

"I don't have anything to do with sales."

"Well, then who will I need to speak with about this?"

She could not remember anyone's names and just told me to call the main store. Okay, fine. Whatever. I try to get a hold of the general manager and leave several voicemails for him, but he never calls me back. About a week later (still hadn't heard about the outcome from the "new" engine), I stormed into the store, demanding to see the general manager, who I knew was there because thirty minutes before I called to see, and the secretary told me to wait in the little lobby area, which I did. Out came this older gentleman, who, as it turned out was NOT the general manager, but the something of sales or whatever. That was when it got amusing.

Remember Stephanie from the beginning of the story? She and I became good friends because I was at the store once a week at least, and she was impressed that I hadn't been a total bitch the whole time. Well, she called my cell phone in the middle of this meeting with George (I can't remember his real name), as he was trying to convince me that I didn't want a new car, just to let their service department do their jobs.

"Hey! It's Stephanie. Um, they just tried to start up the Ion with the new engine? And yeah, it doesn't work. So they wanted me to tell you that you can just select a new car."

I asked Stephanie to repeat that to the guy sitting beside me, who defeatedly sighed and showed me to the lot.

Now, I was not completely happy about this. If I had been who I am right now, I would have told them to fuck themselves and give me back my money so I could go buy a car elsewhere, but I was just so tired of having to drive a rental car that I was willing to just get a new car. I picked out a 2005 red Chevy Aveo, because 1) it was cheaper than the Ion and 2) my insurance would be cheaper.

As I drove away in Roxy, I vowed never EVER to shop at Carmax again. And I tell pretty much everyone that I meet, even if they don't ask, the same thing. The piece that really gets me is that they are all about advertising their 125 point or however many points inspection that ever car goes through. I'd think a warped or blown head gasket would have perked up someone's ears, but I'm starting to think that they're just liars. I'd rather deal with one of those shady buy-here-pay-here lots. At least then the general manager doesn't sit in his office, hoping you'll go away; oh, no, he comes out and FIGHTS you.

* Mind you, I work at a bar at this point, and I'm wearing a VERY short black dress, hoping that I'm not flashing anyone.