As I’ve said, I’m newly a (relatively) new car owner.  There’s a certain pride that comes from owning and loving a piece of shit, and a newer, more mature, less desperate pride that comes from owning a respectable, shiny hunk of metal and bolts that’s rated highest in reliability in its class.  This latter pride is cold as steel.  To wit: my old car was my friend, my confidante, a warm, tender hug that shuddered over 75 mph.  My new car is above all that, thank you very much.

Still, I like going to the mechanic now and assuming everything is fine.  Bessie was a losing battle against rust, wonky suspension, mysteriously disappearing oil, duct taped band-aids, and the power of my own nostalgia.  “Sadie,” when I remember that I did indeed name her, is smoothness and factory warranties.  So imagine the tizzy into which I was sent when my mechanic decided to make a little joke.

ME: (signing the credit card slip) “So, did you do a quick check?  Nothing wrong under that hood, eh wot?”

MECHANIC: (eyes downcast, stapling my receipt) “Actually, yes.  We found a number of things I need you to let us take care of.”

ME: (frozen to the spot, choking on my fear) “Wait…what?  WHAT?  Are you serious?!”

MECHANIC: (looking up, the anticipated gleam in his eye replaced with pity at the sight of my naked desperation) “…of course not.  Jesus.”