theology&geometry

Mom and Dad set me up with some “chrome” hubcabs for Christmas. (They are shiny plastic; I’m not insane.) I’ve been riding with two hubcaps for at least half a year now. Longer than that. I’ve lost three hubcaps over the years, replaced one. They are not cheap. But these beauties? Boy, don’t they shine.

[Project 365]

This week has been a big ball of suck with little chunks of awesomeness stuck to it. I’m busy picking the awesomeness off and putting it in my pockets for safekeeping. And then I’m going to toss the ball of suck and pretend it never existed. Ugh.

So, I found out Tuesday that my rental car needed to be returned Thursday. This came as a shock because I had been told this whole time that the rental was open-ended until I got a new car. No one gave me an end date. My insurance policy states that I get up to 30 days in a rental, so I wouldn’t have dared push it past that. But I was taking my time, evaluating different cars online and making trips out to dealers to test drive. I didn’t want to rush into anything.

And then suddenly the insurance company drops a bomb on me and says that I have two days left with the car. At that point, I had not even settled on what make or model I wanted to buy, much less the specific car. So Wednesday morning I hightailed it to Covington Pike (for the fabillionth time this month, I swear) and began at the Chevy place to test drive a Cobalt (my dad had found a decent, used Cobalt in Savannah that he thought might work if I couldn’t find something better) to see if I even liked it at all. I wasn’t terribly impressed — the generic GM interior is shockingly unattractive for what you pay, and the gas mileage isn’t great — but the car drove well and I knew I’d be content with it if I couldn’t find anything else I absolutely loved.

While I was on the lot, I wanted to look at some Aveos — both the sedan and the hatchback. Aveos are really inexpensive, especially the bare-bones Aveo5s. But the problem with the Aveo is that it feels cheap. I drove both a sedan and a hatch and they’re both cute cars — the interior in them, while being made of super cheap plastic crap, is actually a lot more stylish (and youth-oriented, I guess) than the Cobalt interior. But they feel like go-karts and the hatchback was sooo whiny that it felt like at any moment it was going to crap out on me. Do not want.

I appreciated the patience and non-pushiness of the Chevrolet salesman. He ran and got keys three separate times for me, and a new battery for the Aveo5 that was lacking one. He didn’t try to get me “in the box” and start talking numbers. I was in control of that visit. It was awesome. I took his card and told him I had some other lots to visit, and hopped over next door to the Nissan lot to check out a Versa, based on ML‘s recommendation in the comments of an earlier post.

The Versa impressed me, even if the salesman was kinda weird and didn’t know much about the car. I drove a hatchback around the block and really, really liked it. The interior didn’t look like cheap crap (and I’m not saying that I’m looking for a luxury interior; I’m just looking for an interior that my kultzy ass will not destroy within a week) and it was roomy as hell. I liked the ride a bit more than the Fit, but the sticker price struck me as being out of my target, and the gas mileage was slightly poorer than the Honda, so I sort of put it on my extended list and went next door to the Honda lot to check on a Fit again.

Serendipitously, there was Larry, hanging out on the front stoop, smiling as he saw me pull up. Ugh, that made me feel dirty. It was like a shark had spotted some chum dripping from a bucket. We walked on back to the Fits and I quickly found the one with the cheapest sticker price and we got in for another test drive. I tried to be more critical of the car that time around. Some things I didn’t like: The seats seem cheap and rigid. The acceleration is a little goosey, and the gas pedal seems higher off the floor than it needs to be. The engine didn’t seem quite as powerful as the Versa’s (of course, that’s a tradeoff for better fuel economy). But I really liked the instrument panel and all the different ways you could configure the seats.

After the test drive, I went into Larry’s depressing office — which showed no signs of his humanity (pictures of his family or friends, a beach calendar, a real plant, nothing) and we started talking numbers. Although I had told him earlier that my ideal payment would be about $180, he asked, “So you’re looking to get something at around $250?”

And there began my hour of hell, during which Larry tried every trick in the book on me. I’d talk him back down and finally settled on $200 as being my max, and he kept saying, “So, what would it take to get you in this car today? If I can get these numbers down to your numbers, are you telling me you’d take this car off the lot today? I’ve got to have some light at the end of the tunnel, here.”

And I was just thinking, Dude, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel: It’s the door at the end of the hall and I’m about to walk right the fuck through it. But I remained polite and told him that no way was I making any promises and I needed to know their best offer before we could move forward. Up until that time, he was sticking solely with sticker price. I don’t think he ever moved off of that, even a little. I know that small cars don’t give dealers quite the profit leeway to play with that bigger cars do, but I don’t give a shit. Their profit is not my fucking concern.

Larry wanted to run my credit, which I was unsure about, so I told him give me a minute to consult with my adviser. Ha. I went outside and called my dad and he seemed to think that if I was semi-serious about this car, that it would be OK to let them get my numbers so we could get a more accurate picture of what interest rates my numbers would earn me. I’m just paranoid and don’t like a lot of hits on my credit report.

I went back in and Larry ran my numbers and told me I could get the car for $270 a month. My heart sank. That sounded really shitty, considering I have pretty good credit. Turns out they don’t finance for the amount of time I was looking for unless you’re financing more than $15,000. Larry then turned me over to the financing dude, who ticked out some shit on his computer and made stupid jokes to me about how he never sees payments as low as $270. “My payment on my motorcycle is higher than this!” It was at that point that I mentally checked out and just started texting people while the financing dude turned me over to yet another dude, who tried to be laid-back and cool to earn my trust. Fuck that. They kept leaving the room for ten minutes at a time to “call the banks” to shop for loan terms and get the payments down to my absolute ceiling, which was $220 (or so I told them). The lowest they could get the payments was to $240. They weren’t working with me at all. They were just doing their silly salesman dance. Give me a fucking break. I know nothing about this process but I could see right through all of it because they don’t even try to hide how shady they are. So I told them that if we couldn’t make it work, we couldn’t make it work. I saw them give up. I got a pat on the shoulder from the cool dude as he scowled and left the room.

And just to show that I have a superior sense of humor, as I left, I told the financing guy, “Thank you for your patience!” Ha. I crack myself up.

Anyway, that afternoon, I read this, and flushed the rest of my hope for humanity down the toilet.

The good news, though — and there is pretty effing good news — is that I mentioned to my dad that I was impressed with the Versa, and he checked out the Savannah Nissan place to see what they had in terms of deals on those (or even used ones, but they’re too new to be popping up as used in most places). And I’ll be damned. I’m going to buy my new car Monday (my first new car ever). Granted, I didn’t do the haggling on it, but at this point I can swallow my pride and go fork over my money and take the deal. My dad’s awesome and that’s all there is to it. I think helping me out like this has actually helped him feel better than he’s felt in a long time. At least, he sounds excited when I talk to him. So, everyone wins.

Except Larry.

I mustered up the huevos to visit Covington Pike today, just to look around at new cars to see what might strike me (it is hard to get a feel for cars just by doing internet research) as being “me.”

Within two nanoseconds of my feet hitting the pavement at Dobbs Honda, a salesman — Larry — was on it, up in my grill, wanting to know if I wanted to take a new Honda home with me. Uh, yeah, I sure do. Are they free? That’s a hell of a promotion.

Anyhoo, I was sizing up the new Civics and asked Larry if they also sold Fits. He led me over to a row of them, both the basic and the sport models. Damn, they are cute. I peered at the stickers in the window, and then into the window. I have no idea what I was looking for; all the interiors were identical. But that’s what you do — look into the windows until you think of a question to ask. Larry and I were running out of things to talk about, so I asked if I could get into one. He went and got the keys for me and hopped into the passenger side as I slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat and fumbled to adjust it to accommodate my short legs.

I asked him what bells and whistles the standard model came with, and he turned the car on and pointed out all the -dometers. I love a car that has an instrument panel that looks like a space ship. It appeals to my inner dumbass because it makes me feel like I’m doing something complicated that a monkey couldn’t do.

Larry asked me if I wanted to take it for a drive, and I said suuuuure! and drove veeeerrrry slowly around the other cars to get out onto the highway. God, it sucked driving with Larry watching. Despite the stupid number of wrecks I’ve had (three that were my fault, one that wasn’t), I maintain that I’m a pretty good driver. But I rarely flex my driving muscles for complete strangers. It weirds me out. I feel like they’re judging me, silently ticking off minor infractions and wondering what podunk DMV let me onto the road (Hardin County, thanks). Just like the driving test I took when I was 15, we made four right turns and ended up right where we started. Except I had to back the thing back into its parking space. Which was easy! Because it’s tiny.

Only not annoyingly tiny. It’s way more roomy than you’d think. Granted, I didn’t get out and roll around in the back seat to see how roomy it is, but I could tell from looking that it would seat friends or gobs of random crap equally as comfortably. The seats fold totally down to fit more cargo. Even the front seat folds down if you need to haul long things. I don’t do a lot of hauling, but I do like the idea of hauling crap.

The driving itself was pretty smooth. I had read reviews/threads complaining about how the Fit will, if you stop accelerating, kind of jerk and slow itself down instead of coast (I’m sure this has a name), and I did feel that periodically. Kind of annoying. But overall it was a smooth ride and I didn’t crash into anything, so there’s that to be happy about.

I’ve decided, though, that when I venture back out to the car lots to look at my next round of cars, I’m going to have to invent some kind of persona to put on. I just can’t be me around these car salesmen because THEY WILL EAT ME ALIVE. They ask polite questions and I get diarrhea of the mouth and give them the full story. Larry — who, to his credit, wasn’t aggressive at all — knows all about why I HAVE to buy a car now, and fast. As I was telling him about my situation, I was wincing on the inside. Pokerface, pokerface, pokerface! Don’t got one. I was just making conversation in that silent car. I suppose I should have turned on the radio, to check it out. But I was terrified of crashing the damn thing if I took my hands off the wheel for even a second.

So, next time, I’ll be shopping as Tammy, the young single mother who has raised ten kids in nine years and who chain smokes, has tattooed knuckles, worked on cars at her ex-boyfriend’s body shop, wears tapered jeans, and does not take shit from anyone. I’ll start working on my accent now.

I will never be able to afford a car this nice in Real Life.

My rental car is an ice-purple PT Crusier convertible. I’m sure car buffs would guffaw over me calling the Cruiser “nice,” but to me it is. It’s a pretty new car — 16,000 miles on it, and it still smells like the factory. I like the way it drives — I feel like I’m sitting up higher than I did in my Alero, and it feels smooth and tight the way older cars don’t — but it’s got pretty dismal blind spots when the top’s up. I confess, I have not yet driven with the top down. Perhaps when it warms up to 50 degrees.

The adjustor told me today that the Alero is definitely totaled. They want to release it from the tow lot to a salvage yard. I said fine. My dad called, pissed that the insurance people had even talked to me. They were supposed to go through him. I’m stupid and don’t know how to do all this without getting bilked, so he’s insisting on handling it. He’s pissed that the insurance company wants to send the car to a salvage yard before they’ve even offered us any money. This makes sense to me, I guess. I don’t know the rules. I don’t know the protocol. I am completely clueless. Everyone I talk to is offering conflicting advice. All I want is to go back to Saturday night and take Union instead of Linden, dammit.

Tomorrow (okay, later today) at 8 a.m., I have to go clean out the car. There is so much stuff in there. Granny’s clothes, pieces of kitchen appliances, newspapers, bottles, sunglasses, books, plastic cups, bras (don’t ask), maps, stamps, etc. I’m going to need an army of trash bags. I need to get my tags and my mats. It will be the last I see of my car, which is headed for a junkyard, to be picked at by vultures seeking cheap parts. Actually, I shouldn’t think of it like that. I should think of it as organ donorship. Through the death of my car, others can live. Or something.

And I have to go to the doctor for real this time. I tried Sunday — Methodist Minor Medical wouldn’t take my insurance — and again Monday — Baptist Minor Medical allowed me to wait for three hours and took my co-pay, only to have the doctor say she couldn’t treat me and I’d have to go to the ER for a back x-ray. (Which I didn’t do because it was New Year’s Eve, Joey was in in town and I AM NOT INSANE.) So I guess I’ll try to make an appointment with a doctor who does do big x-rays this time. I feel fine, I’m not all that sore, really, but everyone’s nagging me to go get checked out and I’m tired of hearing it. And I’m just dying to waste an afternoon breathing germs in a doctor’s waiting room.

I’ve been looking at car prices and specs online. I’ve been floored by how much cars cost these days. This makes me old or stupid or both. I remember the days when you could get a decent entry-level car for $10,000. Now I don’t see much below $16,000ish. Even used cars are effing expensive.

Kinda got a crush on the Fit. I’m definitely looking for something that gets good mileage. Crude futures hit $100 a barrel, don’tchaknow?

I was heading west on Linden at about 11:40, stopped completely to turn left onto Cynthia (yes, my blinker was on) waiting for freaking ever because of the steady stream of traffic coming from downtown (Liberty Bowl and U of M basketball revelry), when some car just fucking plows into me from behind and pushes me into oncoming traffic. Thankfully, the giant SUVs heading straight for my face swerved to miss me and I moved my car back into my lane.

Turns out the woman who hit me — and her tuxedoed companions — were coming from a wedding. And had been drinking. She had no license. First thing she said to me was, “I’m fucked. I’m going to jail.”

And after she watched her car get towed and came over to me and said, “Do you see this? Do you know how much this is going to cost?! This is an Acura!,” I was hoping that she was right. A night in the clink would surely help her out on the humility front. They put her in the back of the police car but I have no idea if they actually took her to 201 Poplar or let her go. I got all the info I needed from her and the cop and got the eff out of there.

So, I’m fine (back’s a little sore; I’m going to have it checked out later today). My car is not fine. I guess all that talk about being in the market for a new car wasn’t bullshit after all. Yay?

[for Thursday, Dec. 27]

For the record, this is NOT one of my cats. (My cats can’t kill anything except my patience. And silence, sweet silence.) This viciously cute little fluffball is a younger sibling to my cats, still residing with my parents. This is either Johnna, Paula, or Georgie (not sure, I can’t tell them apart, and besides, one of them has been renamed “Connie” because, according to my mother, she has a contemplative look about her), who was tossing this poor dead cardinal around with reckless abandon when I came home from the mechanic’s on Thursday morning.

Oh, speaking of mechanics. The car ended up needing a new spark plug and ignition coil. $83 for parts and labor. Not too shabby. She runs like a beaut now. Except for the loud-ass window-tape flapping that grows worse and worse as my ghetto window falls into the crack atop the door.

So I guess that’s next on my list.

I’m hungry. I’m waiting on my lunch partner, who’s dealing with yet another car problem. I really think it’s time he considered public transportation, considering that this year alone, he dropped more than $700 on repairs, then got into major legal hot water concerning his license, then totaled the car, and then had to deal with a replacement car that is persnickety and sometimes decides to run out of gas and then not start back up even when gas is put back in it.

Oops, just got the call. The fuel pump is fubar.

Guess I’ll be making myself a turkey sandwich.

Fucking cars.