I love my car. Well, as much I can, anyway. It gets me where I need to go. It looks nice. It's age-appropriate (maybe even a little on the Yuppie side). But, I love it. And I take good care of it. The oil gets changed when it's supposed to. I replace things that break or need fixing when necessary. Hell, it even gets washed (although not as frequently as it should-AHEM, LITTLE BROTHER). I am very good to my car.
That being said, I'll give you a little additional background on my beloved car. She is a 2006 VW Jetta 2.5. She is silver with black leather interior. I researched her before I was forced into buying her (that in itself is a whole other story...thank you drunk driver...), and found her to be an okay fit for my budget and lifestyle. We haven't really had any problems. I mean, yes, we're both females, so that can be an issue sometimes, but we usually get along just fine. Now us and the tires...not so much. But, if you know me, you know I've never been one for getting along with tires. Pretty sure I had 13 flat tires with my previous car. :(
(My mother keeps telling me I need to marry a mechanic, or at least a man who works at a tire shop).
You all know that I often visit one of my sisters in Florida. So, of course, this past Labor Day weekend, my sister Clara and I made the six hour trip (sorry about that GPS snafu, Clara!) to see our other sister, Tracy. Prior to making the trip, I made sure to have my oil changed and checked the air in my tires. Everything appeared fine, and we made it there in one piece.
Our trip home was a different story entirely. Let me make it a point here to tell you that it's a stupid, stupid idea to travel during a tropical storm. We left Florida earlier than planned on Labor Day morning, and of course, it was raining. Actually, raining is an understatement. We packed the car and began driving in a Tsunami. Since the front left tire looked low on air, we stopped when the rain turned to a light mist to check and put air in all of the tires.
Of course, air costs money, and likewise, of course, I had no change. Precious time without rain was wasting. I walked inside the gas station and stood in line behind a 70-something year old lady who was redeeming twenty lottery tickets and purchasing about thirty more. Well, she was trying to anyway...the clerk was too busy adding ketchup and mustard to his cheese dog. By the time I got back outside with my quarters, it was starting to rain heavily again. My pants and shirt were thoroughly soaked. You can imagine that the fact that I was about to embark on an at least six hour ride home in soaking wet clothes was already putting me in a bad mood. Oh, and did I mention that Clara and I always travel with our three dogs? Just imagine being soaking wet in a car that smelled like wet dogs...and knowing that you were about to travel that way for the next six hours...yep, that's right, it was a total "FML" moment.
So, air is finally in tires, tire gauge claims that it really isn't. Only 25 PSI, and I'm supposed to have 33? I'm pissed at this point and decide to drive anyway. Apparently, this did not make my car happy. Approximately an hour into the drive, my car started doing weird, crazy things. She apparently was pms-ing and intended on murdering me and my passengers. Despite the fact that I'm already driving slow on a two-lane road through Alabama in a Tsunami, my car starts flashing the warning light that comes on when some type of traction is activated. My car begins to "correct" itself, and despite the fact that I am not technically "steering", it pulls dangerously to the left and starts to slide. My heartbeat quickens. I knew I should have taken my anxiety medicine. It stops for a while, and then begins to do it again-and more frequently. Clara is asleep in the passenger seat and doesn't seem to notice the random jerking to the left and then back over into our lane. I wake her up and tell her I'm worried. It starts raining harder.
I do what I do when all else fails and pull over to call my dad. I pick my dad over my mom because I know she's going to tell me to look in the book that came with my car. And I also know that the book is in my trunk and that I'm not about to get soaking wet again. My dad drills me with a series of questions and then tells me he doesn't know, but it sounds like I'm screwed anyway. Thanks, Dad...pretty sure I already knew this before I called. He then turns into my mother and asks me what my book says. I hang up, even more pissed and get out into the pouring rain to get the damn book. The book that doesn't say anything except for what the hazard light means...again, something I already know. I am seriously beginning to hate my car and Volkswagon at this point.
Then, I suddenly remember something that the salesman who sold me my car said, "Never hit the 'ESP' button". I look down and push it. The light goes out. I restart my car, the hazard light is still off. I tell this information to my dad, who then tells me to pull back out onto the road and drive a little ways and then slam on my brakes. He is serious. I wonder for a brief moment if he and my car are in cohorts in this plot to murder me. Sure enough, my car brakes correctly and doesn't veer of its own accord into oncoming traffic.
Clara and I make it safely through the rest of Alabama, and then through several tornados that seem to be touching down everywhere along our route home in Georgia. I never named my car prior to this trip, but I think I have decided to do so after enduring such a nerve-racking drive: Crazy Bitch.
(And btw, we made that entire trip driving with an expired tag. Guess who forgot to get their tag renewed before partying it up on her birthday? Yep, that idiot would be me...)
Saved for the time being,
Freeway Fairington
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