I hate cars. I’ve said this before, and in exactly those words. I’ll say this again. That is a safe bet. Because I HATE CARS.
I even hate this new Honda I just bought, and lemme tell you, I LOVE Hondas. Toyotas, too. I love them so much that I would marry them in a group cult wedding with thousands of other Japanese-car-worshippers, all of us naked and oiled and holding hands and singing ditzy folk songs with daisies in our hair. Yes. I would do that. In fact, I already have.
But still, I HATE THIS HONDA. Two days after buying it, I had to get the roters fixed. Four days after buying it, it broke down in Manhattan — on 85th St., just east of the tunnel in Central Park! Where there’s no shoulder! With lots of batshit traffic whizzing past! Ahhhhh! — and I freaked the *BEEP* out until a AAA truck took my vee-hickle and a cab ferried me and my son to a friend’s place on the Upper West Side.
The irony: I bought this car because I needed a reliable vee-hickle on a few long drives ahead of me (italics mine), and this awesome website I found identified THIS VERY HONDA as THE most reliable year of THE most reliable model in THE most reliable body type in THE HISTORY OF CARS. Oh, hey! I innocently thought. I am one smart cookie! I am one shrewd customer! I’m buying a sturdy and dependable vee-hickle!
So on the drive down, just north of New York City, when the engine starting making a crunching noise similar to that of Ewoks stuck in a sink compactor, I told myself NO NO NO NO NO. When a dude at a rest stop heard this awful noise, came over, shook his head sadly and moaned, “Ohhhh, that’s not good,” again I told myself NO NO NO NO NO. This is a Honda!, I objected Hondas don’t do this! Especially not MY HONDA! Why, I married it just last week!
To be clear, I am NOT mad at the dealership that sold me this cursed *BEEP*-ing beast of a Honda. The folks there have been lovely, absolute paragons of decency in the business. I know they’re required by law to cover these repairs, but they’re not required to apologize profusely and express profound dismay as they arrange to haul my Honda’s ass north on a flatbed truck and then fix the thing in seemingly minutes flat. Turned out it was the A/C compressor and the serpentine belt. I have no idea what those two things are. Don’t try to explain them to me. Someday I’ll learn to fix them myself. Just not today.
Anyway, the hated Honda is back and running fine now, but I still hate cars. I still hate THIS car. If it wants my affection back, it’s gonna have to woo me with roses and Dove bars, and maybe oil itself up and hold my hand and sing a few ditzy songs in the process. The *BEEP*-er.