Cars!

This post is called, "I don't own a car, because I'm a lady, Ass Face." I thought I should document this tale, as it is looking more likely that my sister is going to move to California and require her luxury Honda back.
So in the beginning....I was raised that being skinny and pretty is essential, followed closely with the idea that the car you drive is a direct link to whether or not you will get into heaven. Or in other words, "the important things."
My first car was a BMW named Olive that I received from fat dad when I was 15. It was sold several years later when I decided I did not drive, I was driven. Don't get your panties in a bundle, the car was an '81, and I was a terrible driver. Several years later I bought myself a Jetta named Gretta. She was quite the looker, especially in these parts. But then I decided to play the Ouiji board at Ghost Trestle, and consequently, Gretta never worked again. Don't bother asking questions on that tale, you are too big of a sissy-la-la to know.
After that, I decided I needed an SUV named Marty Maraschino, ( after the slutty pink lady.) I paid the king's ransom for her over the course of several years, and she was a beaut. At some point during my ownership of Marty, I realized I was too pretty to care so much about my car. Or maybe I became  poorer in my quest to be defined by my killer wardrobe instead. Either, way, we will say I grew up and became wise to the world.  So I paid off Marty, kept her impeccably clean, and drove the shit out of her for over 10 years. Well, like everything else, she got run down and started to break. I shelled out some dough for a plethora of repairs before turning to fat dad for guidance. You must know, that fat dad is schooled particularly well on two things: he is a gas station hamburger connoisseur, and he knows his cars. He has always collected cars like women (for him that's a lot of both). As a kid he would buy carpet for under his cars,  and stanchions to go around them, as if we would dare touch them anyway as our step mother, Satan, did not allow us to make direct eye contact with people. Or cars, we will say. Present day he has a little black car, I would call Brad, one of those hideous toaster shaped cars hipsters drive, and a tiny 80's porche he barely fits in.  I never ask anything of fat dad, except maybe he not eat his cow pies in front of me. Is a cow pie a hamburger? Or poop? I don't know what you meat eaters call them nowadays. You get the point. But I needed his advice.
 Anywhosies, I turn to fat dad and say, "hey Mcfatty, what do you think is wrong with Marty?" F.D. says, "oh Sis, Marty is a boat anchor at this point. Why don't you push her off into your woods, you'd be lucky to get $800 for her."  That is a quote.  And apparently $800 is chump change to my father, P.Diddy. *insert sarcasm*
So I whined to anyone who would listen about my car debacle. And all of a sudden, every gd person I knew was a car expert. Most of the advice was to just simply sell Marty, and buy a Benz.  I too, also have P.Diddy's salary, so this was excellent advice. Those few who didn't recommend simply buying a Benz, offered me their brother, cousin, neighbor, uncle to car shop with me. I don't even like to girl shop at the mall with other people because it's too damn annoying, and that's for dresses or handbags. The idea of shopping for a car with your great  uncle's neighbor who could allegedly get me a good deal, sounded disgusting and gross.
But Marty needed to go before she really did die on the side of the road inevitably leaving me in the country to be raised by some hillbillies who would make my back skin into a prairie skirt. Yes, you should see what I drive through to get to my glamorous mall job. And then one day she stopped moving in my driveway and water came out of her head lights. I shit you not, like freaking tears!!
So I put Marty on Craig's list from the pressure of my smarter friends. The idea still made me nervous and scared of the freaks who would call. But I like money and I wanted to make some. The following is my Craig's list posting:

My beautiful 2002 GMC Envoy SLT, named Marty, died in my driveway. She looks stunning, perfect condition in looks. I have polished her leather interior every week for 10 years. But she does not run at all. I don't know why. Before she stopped completely, she had a leaky gas valve. She has 170,000 miles. I bet you know how to make her run, I do not, so please come get her.

And guess what, freaks began calling in after 2.5 seconds. Most were manly men who used car lingo I had never heard of. I debated on altering my voice to sound like a lez, giving me more credibility--but that's one "accent" I just can't seem to perfect. So I invited Bill to my home to check out Marty, based on the fact he referenced the 80's horror flick, "Christine."
Bill showed up to the Country Manse with his fat ginger brother and was polite as pie, despite the fact he looked like he was raised in a barn and had a gray tooth. I had decided on the price of $2000 based on extensive inter webs research. This was also decided on despite the fact my baby did not run. Ginger McFat pants offered me $1500 cash in crisp $100 bills and I agreed. After all that was still almost double what fat dad claimed Marty was worth. So I snatched up the cash, handed over the title with the complementary Bath and Body Works creamy nutmeg car freshener, and was off to the pool while the hillbillies allegedly made arrangements for a tow.
An hour later my friend and I returned from the pool to see Marty speed out of my drive on two wheels while the ginger McFatties just roared. I shook my head in a way that implied, "awe shucks, I just lost a game of neighborhood dodge ball." Actually that's a weird analogy and I would never play with the neighbors, or dodge ball. But you get the point. It was like no biggie!
But the damage was done, I sold my boat anchor, that drove out of my driveway with the same vigor she drove off the lot years and years ago.
So that was 3 months ago.  Luckily my sister who lives in New York, left behind her hunter green luxury Honda. Both bumpers are dented and her left mirror looks to be a bike mirror. It is tiny and does the opposite of magnify. So if a car is 4 feet away, it looks like it's 4 miles away. Hmmm...safe.  My sister has also spilled coffee on ever square inch, and a blackberry stain on the passenger floor looks like someone died. I just hate when I go blackberry picking and spill a bucket in my car and then step on them mashing them into the floor to be stained for all eternity. But we will blog about lil' Sis another day.
I tried car shopping on several occasions. But unless you have a gruff uncle neighbor cousin who is a man or a bull dyke--good luck. If you are not willing to buy a Benz, you are shown maroon grandma cars that were for sure, once cop cars. Every car I was shown I named. I test drove a Peggy, a Shirley, a Dolores, a Judy and a Marge. Those are all elderly, or fill their trunks with canned foods from Aldi's. After that I test drove a white Tiffany, to which the car man looked pleased by my naming. No. Tiffany wears scrunchies, blares Nicki Minaj and sprays herself with anything coconut flavored she can find. So I stopped with that hobby, and have just been driving the ol' luxury Honda. I find it hard to believe I am the first woman who does not have a vast knowledge or interest in cars who also doesn't have an uncle neighbor cousin lesbian lover, to help me.
But that's where we are today, proving once again, that I shouldn't drive--I should be driven.