So long, old friend

This weekend, I had to say goodbye to a relationship that's lasted more than 14 years -- really, the longest relationship of my adult life -- and it was hard. We'd been together a long time. We shared a lot of good times together, and a few bad times, too. We were partners. Sadly, cars do not last forever, and my Saturn was more than 17 years old. It was time to let her go to that great junkyard in the sky (or Lynnwood, whichever).

She wasn't my first car -- that honor went to the Beretta my dad gave me for my college graduation. She wasn't the first car I bought -- that was a '92 red Saturn coupe. But she was the first car that really felt like mine. I bought her from the dealer -- all by myself! We rode together down Rt. 9 every day; we got lost in Boston together; we went to weddings and marches on Washington together; and finally, she drove me all the way across the country to my new life in Seattle. I'll always treasure our special moments together: digging her out of a blizzard's worth of snow; jamming an entire futon in her back seat; "accidentally" driving over a traffic cone with her; repairing her hood after a window fell on it; and, of course, all 3,000 and some miles of cross-country adventure.

Athena, you were a great car, and there will never be another one like you. (Literally, of course. They stopped making Saturns years ago.)

Who do you think you are?

Sometimes, what I miss most about a regular job is the driving. I know, who misses their commute? But it always gave me an opportunity to just listen to music, think, chill, etc. It also gave me an excellent place to turn that shit up, really, really loud. So, this afternoon, I'm rocking out on 405 to some Black Label Society, and I realize how utterly ridiculous I must look -- a 30something woman in a fucking Toyota Highlander, blaring hard rock. And occasionally throwing the goat. I mean, it wasn't even the Saturn, people. True, a '97 SC2 isn't exactly cool, but there's something about its beater status that fits in with the angry music. I looked like a soccer mom out there. And I kind of am. But I'm a soccer mom who listens to Em and Black Label Society! And occasionally, Barbra Streisand. Bygones.

Juiced

Because I am so cool and hip to new tunes, I was super excited to finally get my Juice Newton from Amazon. For some odd reason, I couldn't find it in any stores around here. Bygones. There is nothing -- nothing, I say -- like driving in your '97 Saturn with the windows down, wind in your hair, belting out "Angel of the Morning."

Pimpin' my ride

I got the Saturn a shiny new battery tonight, and then she started! It was very exciting as I hadn't driven my baby car in nine months or so. You know, give or take. (Lessons learned: Do not garage the Saturn during the "winter." Do not leave car alarm armed during said "winter." Also, do not question battery man when he wants to put his hands in the engine.)

Going back to riding in Saturn style is going to be an adjustment from driving J.R.'s wee Beetle, but it will feel good to be myself again. Beetle Jen was just too precious for words, and it never really felt right jamming along with Em or Tool in that cute a car.

It's all coming back to me now

I have spent the last year or so mostly listening to chick music -- lyric-driven folk tunes, plaintive boy ballads, and the like -- but tonight, on my way home from work, I turned to my Anger Management playlist. I wanted some loud, angry music to soothe my soul -- Audioslave, A Perfect Circle, Em. The only problem is that my commute is a short 10-minute drive involving no highway. So just when I pick up the appropriate speed and crank the tunes, I have to stop. And then lower the volume sheepishly, as I am a suburban white girl driving a Beetle, for chrissakes. (No, I haven't fixed the Saturn yet.) And when I got home, I actually hit the treadmill for the first time in weeks, as I really, really wanted to keep listening to the angry tunes -- they are the perfect antidote to being cooped up all day.

By the numbers

1 baby Saturn
2 crazy drivers
390 photos
3 mountain ranges
2 chili 5-ways at Steak 'n Shake
4 quarts of oil
14 states
3 national parks
15 interstate highways
4 hotels
3,879.3 miles
and
1 life-changing move

Four score and seven years ago

Okay, just forget the four score part. Seven years ago today, I started at this here job. I drove a '92 Saturn coupe. I was dating my girlfriend from college. I had ridiculously short hair. I was living with my mother. Not much has changed. Except for the car, the girlfriend, the hair, and where I live. Bygones.

Here be dragons

I drove to Norwood this morning, and while I didn't see any bears, I swear Rt. 1 is falling off the edge of the world. (It didn't help that my journey was lengthened considerably by construction on the VFW Parkway. Of course, travel two miles in any direction in Massachusetts and you'll hit construction.) I left my baby car in the hands of Saturn of Norwood reluctantly, but I had no choice. I told them my problems, gave them my work number, and hoped for the best. Two hours later, she called. No big deal. An O2 sensor. Sweet! I didn't need to replace the engine. And then she called back. Yeah. Cam-something-gasket-something, piston filled with oil. Seriously? I knew I was leaking oil somehow. Okay, go ahead. I don't need to eat this month.

I left work a little early to try to avoid some 128 southbound traffic and was almost killed whilst traveling entirely legally in the breakdown lane. If that didn't piss me off enough, I didn't know where the damn horn was on my loaner car. So I could only curse vociferously and gesture wildly to the bastard in the mini-van who doesn't know what those shiny mirror things are for. I arrived at Saturn far from my happy place, and $407 later, my mood had not improved. I walked out to my now-fixed vehicle and climbed inside. And there they were. Saturn mints. My entire cupholder was filled with Saturn mints. These things are the Holy Grail of mints. You can't buy them in stores. Bless you, Saturn of Norwood. Bless you. Sure, I appreciate the service, and the loaner, and the vacuumed interior. But most of all, I appreciate the mints. I'll be back in 3,000 miles or the next time I'm leaking oil into my pistons. Whichever comes first.

No Freud needed

Last night, I dreamt that my car broke down. And then my back-up motorcycle also broke down. (Interestingly enough, my back-up motorcycle was an iPod model, but bygones.) I've been avoiding making a car appointment for several months now because I know something is wrong with my car. Now, I'm not an idiot, and I don't usually shy away from harsh truths, like the Saturn dude telling me how much it's going to cost, but combine what is sure to be dismal news with the closing of my Saturn of Natick dealer (oh, so conveniently located 10 minutes from work), and you've got one reluctant Jen. The next closest dealership is in Norwood! Where the hell is Norwood? Plus, it doesn't sound good. It sounds like what Endora used to call Darrin. After that scary dream (I was driving an iPod), I knew the time had come. I called up Saturn of Norwood today, and my baby car is going in. Keep your fingers crossed, people. My credit card only has so much room on it.

Apparently, America does start here

So, I moseyed into Dunkin' Donuts today because I have been beaten down by the relentless campaign for their new French toast twists. They look good! So full of cinnamon and fat, what more could a girl want? And, apparently, they have been popular, because the first time I tried to score a twist, they were sold out. I was all, "Sold out?" and the DD man was all, "Sold. Out." I was extremely bummed. Bygones. Today, as I ventured into my local DD, I crossed a woman coming out who was very agitated. Surely they can't be out of French toast twists again? No. Oh, no. She made a beeline for the poor man who was sweeping the sidewalk/parking lot. "Do you need me to move my new car?" she asked. "I'm getting very concerned." Seriously, people, she was very concerned. Apparently, brooms can do major damage to new cars. I continue in to order my twists, and the entire time she is in line behind me, she is staring out the window at her new car and making little "hmph" noises. I almost died.

Am I missing something? Does sweeping pavement cause major damage to new cars? Is this something I should be on the lookout for my baby Saturn? God forbid my car get dust damage.

Oh, and the French toast twists? Pretty yummy. More maple than I was expecting (sort of like they added the syrup for you), but still tasty.

Actually, a mouth full of teeth is kind of like a car

Why is going to the dentist for a cleaning like taking your car for an oil change? You go in, all innocent and shit, happy in your knowledge of regular brushing and flossing, slightly disturbed at the thought of paying someone to scrape your teeth, but resigned to the way of healthy gums. And then, the hygienist lays the smack down. Um-hmm, looks like a spot here. And maybe a spot there. And Dr. Ken should look at this. And then, before as you know it, you've got a $800 rack-up for a new tie rod, and a sway bar, and a muffler. I thought everything was good! I performed scheduled maintenance! Why do you hate me?

At least Dr. Ken was all nice about it, and just threw down with some sealant. The Saturn dealer? Not so much.

I will build a pedestal and put you upon it

Dealers know what they're doing when they loan you a new car while your old one is in the shop, because, even though it's an automatic, I'm digging the new black Saturn Ion I'm cruising in today. (It is a bitter irony that the heat finally breaks on the one day I get to drive a car with air conditioning.) And while I was dropping off the aforementioned almost-paid-off '97 SC2, I saw a poster of the new Saturn roadster (ridiculously named Sky), and it's pretty f-ing hot. I mean, it's no Mustang, but it's still pretty sweet. And I could almost maybe afford it. Someday.

So many deadly sins all in one moment

I saw the hottest red Ferrari while driving to work this morning. Lust. Envy. More lust. More envy. Anger that I can't have one of my own. It was all rolled up in one fine, fine automobile. I turned my radio down just so I could listen to the engine while she shifted gears. Oh, man, did she purr. I followed her down the road for quite a bit, and actually passed her in the Saturn, but I kept her in my rearview mirror, until some piece of shit Honda got in my way. Dude, that's a Ferrari! Do not put your ugly-ass vehicle between me and all that is glorious!

And, yes, I did make kissy noises to that red beauty all the way down Rt. 9.

Crash into me

When I said I wanted to take more pictures, this wasn't what I had in mind.

I mean, what the fuck, people? What kind of evil curse has been placed on my baby car? What are the chances that the wicked wind we've been having here in Boston would pick just the right draft in order to separate the window from the house in order to best crash down upon my car? It's not right, goddammit. It's not right. I guess I should be happy that the fall didn't break my windshield and, you know, only gouged the fuck out of my hood.

March madness or why you should beware the ides

I hate this time of year. Nothing good is going to happen for months. Certainly nothing good is going to happen this week. My computer is currently sending some weird call out to the mother ship. The Saturn has a wicked shimmy whenever I go over 60 MPH, probably a tortured alignment from all the potholes in the shitty "roads" here in the Bay State. I have to shop for a bridesmaid dress on Friday.

And this morning, I crossed some previously unknown yet still substantial line in road rage: I've started to give the finger preemptively. You know when you're driving along, and you see someone creeping out into the rotary, and you say, "Don't even think about it"? Well, now I say that and accompany it with the finger. I gave the finger this morning to some innocent minivan driver, and I don't know why. I think it's because I suspected they were going to do something out of line. Or maybe because their car was taupe. One of those two.

Such great heights

In the aftermath of a record-setting blizzard, I like to stay at home and avoid the treacherous streets. Thusly, today I got to work from home, which means a delightful full day of work-type activities and then shoveling on my "lunch break." But the good news is the vertical lift on my snow-throw has achieved new heights. (It had to to get over the enormous mounds of snow in my front yard.) My eyes are crossed from proofreading and my arms are quivering from throwing snow. All in a good day's work.

Once I shoveled my car out, I took it out for a victory lap around the block. Which I would not refer to as fun, unless you consider spinning and twirling in a Saturn "fun." The roads are still for crap, people. Be careful out there. I would suggest staying at home and enjoying some nice blog reading. Might I suggest some Resplendently Pedestrian? Or perhaps a side of Gienna? Or for your entree, One Face Life? You can top it all off with a little sweet Smitten.

Don't let the mattress beat you down

As I may have mentioned before, Jen got a new couch for the apartment, so we have one futon to dispose of. I asked around, and my mom wants it for her spare room. Sure, no problem, the seats fold down in the Saturn, I can transport it from JP to Lowell. No problem.

Jen and I drag all the various and sundry futon parts out into the driveway and begin the arduous process of shoving them into my itty-bitty Saturn coupe (with convenient fold-down seats). The frame? No problems. The mattress? Oh, it can bite me. First, the thing is heavier than a dead body. (Not that I know how heavy a dead body is.) Second, it doesn't want to go quietly into that good Saturn. Oh, no. It becomes like a cat on its way to a carrier: Suddenly, it's all legs, splayed out in 800 different directions, all of which makes it impossible to shove it into the back of aforementioned Saturn (with the convenient fold-down seats). Jen is determined to wrestle it into submission, so mainly I stand back and laugh quietly. She finally beats it down, and we both step back to contemplate the wonder that is a futon jammed into the back of a Saturn coupe.

Sure, I can't see out the back window, and my seat isn't quite where I like it, but it works. Lowell, ho!

Aftershocks

Sonofabitch, my arms are sore today. Apparently, attempting to extract a cone from your wheel is quite the upper body workout. Perhaps I should keep this up until I get Linda Hamilton arms?

Just imagine the damage I could do to traffic cones around the city.

Moving violation

I'm driving home on 128 tonight, cruising, as usual, in the left lane. (I don't know why, but I just don't like to drive behind idiots in the other lanes. Also, I drive better in the left lane.) I buzz past one of the new "message in lights" boards on the highway and realize it now reads "Left Lane For Passing Only. $100 Fine." The hell you say. Since when? Where did we learn this? Because what is the point of having four fucking lanes if you're only supposed to drive in three of them? Or is the right lane for entering/exiting only? I want to see them enforce this rule around 5 p.m. -- when all four lanes are filled with cars at a total stop. I also want to know what the fine is for telling the first statie who pulls me over to blow me. Because I want to have the check ready by the time he gets to my window.

I'm still fuming over this ridiculousness when I attempt to make the turn onto my street -- I say attempt because it is blocked by three traffic cones. Now, they've been working on the same damn gas line problem for days now, and I know that the blockage is after my driveway, so I can turn down the street. I'm obviously not thinking clearly, because I decide to just drive over the cones. Thinking, hey, I'll flatten it, and that will be that. Um, not in my fucking lifetime. The cone gets stuck in my wheel. Stuck in my wheel. As in stuck. In my wheel. Firmly. Now I'm attempting to forcibly remove it (quietly, as the work trucks are approximately two feet from my house), but I am having no success. Apparently, you should not drive over traffic cones. Who knew? I run into the house to try to regroup and think this one out logically. Luckily, Jen and Pam are home, and Pam thinks this is the funniest damn thing she's ever heard, so she's more than willing to come outside and (stealthily) help me with the cone. I back up, she pulls. I drive forward, she pulls. I get out of the car and we both pull together. No dice. Now Jen is outside with the dogs, and she is laughing her ass off and insisting I take a picture of the cone sticking out of my wheel so I can post it to my blog. I pull some more and say, "This is not going on my blog." I get back in the car, back up some more, and Pam finally, triumphantly, pulls the cone out of my wheel. Then I duck walk the cone back down the street, trying to keep the crew from seeing me with the aforementioned only-slightly-damaged cone.

I swear to god, I may never drive again.

Satisfaction guaranteed

Getting my car fixed at my Saturn dealer always feels like a face-lift for my car. They hose it off and vacuum it out, and, as an added bonus, they fix whatever's wrong with it for only 1/2 of my annual salary. So driving my car home last night was a special treat requiring a little of the King to accompany me. My joy was compounded by the fact that they actually found something wrong with my car that was still covered by warranty. I thought they were required by a mechanic's oath to not find the problem until two days after the warranty expired. And to make the whole experience truly worthwhile, I ate at least three Saturn mints while I was waiting. I don't know where they get those mints from, but they are The Best Mints Ever.