smoking!? Where did that come from??
LawBreakR: Right. Whacked question. Never mind. Ignore me. Just having a mental breakdown or something. TTYL. Safe flight, Caressa. I’ll miss U!! Safe hike, Mer. E me when U2R back down from the mountain.
*
It wasn’t a Porsche, but it wasn’t a 1966 Dodge Dart either, which counted for something in my book. For a lot, actually. And, to be honest, I’d never wanted a Porsche. They suck in the snow, at least that’s the word on the street, no pun intended.
I sat in the driver’s seat of the light green Subaru Outback sedan with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel in a proprietary manner. It occupied space 411 in the vast section marked “pre-owned,” which, I guess, was supposed to sound better than “used.” I don’t know, though. Applied to a different scenario, I would no more want to be “pre-owned” by a guy than I’d want to be “used” by one. But, whatever. Lingo schmingo.
Anyway, whoever pre-owned this particular ride had taken really good care of it. It looked brand new! I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Patron Saint of Pre-Owners who were anal about car care.
We’d stumbled across the sedan at the zillionth place we stopped (Denver sure has a lot of car dealerships!), and the moment I laid eyes on it, I wanted to drive it straight back up the mountain to White Peaks and park it in our driveway—locked, of course, so The Puke wouldn’t try to take it for a spin.
There is sooooo much to love about it, but here are the highlights: the heated seats move up, down, and all around at the touch of a button, and the dash has this fake woodgrain stuff (cooler than it sounds) that just gleams. It features a sun / moon roof, leather seats, low mileage—all things considered—great tires, and a fresh blast of New Car Scent.
Oh, and the stereo rocks—MP3 compatible and the whole nine.
Despite the higher sticker price, we’d taken it out for a test drive after I’d nearly gone apoplectic begging. It drove like a dream and didn’t bounce around like some of the other SUV-type vehicles we’d tried. I hate that bouncy feeling.
Back at the dealership, as predicted, my dad and Dylan stuck their heads under the hood for about three hundred thousand years pointing at various boring-ass hoses and metal things, until my eyeballs nearly exploded. It’s not that I don’t have the capacity to learn about car engines, it’s that I just don’t care.
Finally, just before I snapped into a homicidal frenzy and started looking for a hatchet and some crack, they finished their annoyingly tedious perusal and closed it up, both of them side by side brushing engine blech from their hands.
It wigged me out for a sec, seeing them mirror each other’s actions right next to each other, like they’d both attended the same Super Secret How-to-Be-a-Guy School, or something. It made me picture Dylan at my dad’s age, which wigged me out further until I simply had to shove the whole creepazoid observation out of my mind.
After that, Dylan (young as ever, thank God) and I sat in the car while my dad engaged in a deep conversation with the sales dude. Chloe went with him, which was a huge relief. Can you imagine if she’d climbed into the backseat instead? All chipper and friendly-like? Dylan and I wouldn’t have been able to talk about anything. As things stood, I was too tense to talk about much with Dyl, but that’s beside the point. At least we were alone.
“I take it you like it?” Dylan asked me, smiling from his sprawled position in the passenger seat. He reached over and laid his palm on my thigh—yummy!
“I love it. Do you?”
“For sure. The engine looks great.”
Like I care. I staved off an eye roll. I mean, I care. I want a safe car in good condition, but you know what I’m saying. “Doesn’t matter, though,” I said with a sigh, twisting my mouth to one side.
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Do the math. Even if my
LawBreakR: Right. Whacked question. Never mind. Ignore me. Just having a mental breakdown or something. TTYL. Safe flight, Caressa. I’ll miss U!! Safe hike, Mer. E me when U2R back down from the mountain.
*
It wasn’t a Porsche, but it wasn’t a 1966 Dodge Dart either, which counted for something in my book. For a lot, actually. And, to be honest, I’d never wanted a Porsche. They suck in the snow, at least that’s the word on the street, no pun intended.
I sat in the driver’s seat of the light green Subaru Outback sedan with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel in a proprietary manner. It occupied space 411 in the vast section marked “pre-owned,” which, I guess, was supposed to sound better than “used.” I don’t know, though. Applied to a different scenario, I would no more want to be “pre-owned” by a guy than I’d want to be “used” by one. But, whatever. Lingo schmingo.
Anyway, whoever pre-owned this particular ride had taken really good care of it. It looked brand new! I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Patron Saint of Pre-Owners who were anal about car care.
We’d stumbled across the sedan at the zillionth place we stopped (Denver sure has a lot of car dealerships!), and the moment I laid eyes on it, I wanted to drive it straight back up the mountain to White Peaks and park it in our driveway—locked, of course, so The Puke wouldn’t try to take it for a spin.
There is sooooo much to love about it, but here are the highlights: the heated seats move up, down, and all around at the touch of a button, and the dash has this fake woodgrain stuff (cooler than it sounds) that just gleams. It features a sun / moon roof, leather seats, low mileage—all things considered—great tires, and a fresh blast of New Car Scent.
Oh, and the stereo rocks—MP3 compatible and the whole nine.
Despite the higher sticker price, we’d taken it out for a test drive after I’d nearly gone apoplectic begging. It drove like a dream and didn’t bounce around like some of the other SUV-type vehicles we’d tried. I hate that bouncy feeling.
Back at the dealership, as predicted, my dad and Dylan stuck their heads under the hood for about three hundred thousand years pointing at various boring-ass hoses and metal things, until my eyeballs nearly exploded. It’s not that I don’t have the capacity to learn about car engines, it’s that I just don’t care.
Finally, just before I snapped into a homicidal frenzy and started looking for a hatchet and some crack, they finished their annoyingly tedious perusal and closed it up, both of them side by side brushing engine blech from their hands.
It wigged me out for a sec, seeing them mirror each other’s actions right next to each other, like they’d both attended the same Super Secret How-to-Be-a-Guy School, or something. It made me picture Dylan at my dad’s age, which wigged me out further until I simply had to shove the whole creepazoid observation out of my mind.
After that, Dylan (young as ever, thank God) and I sat in the car while my dad engaged in a deep conversation with the sales dude. Chloe went with him, which was a huge relief. Can you imagine if she’d climbed into the backseat instead? All chipper and friendly-like? Dylan and I wouldn’t have been able to talk about anything. As things stood, I was too tense to talk about much with Dyl, but that’s beside the point. At least we were alone.
“I take it you like it?” Dylan asked me, smiling from his sprawled position in the passenger seat. He reached over and laid his palm on my thigh—yummy!
“I love it. Do you?”
“For sure. The engine looks great.”
Like I care. I staved off an eye roll. I mean, I care. I want a safe car in good condition, but you know what I’m saying. “Doesn’t matter, though,” I said with a sigh, twisting my mouth to one side.
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “Do the math. Even if my
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