Blogger, we need to talk. This isn't working for me. I've found someone else.
What? No. No, it's not like that. Okay, it's a little like that. Oh, for heaven's sake. Stop it. Put the razor down. This isn't Livejournal.
My needs are different now, okay? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am more satisfied elsewhere. It's not me, it's you. No, I know that's not how that phrase goes. See, you're overreacting. This is why we never go anywhere.
Moving elsewhere, folks. You can find me here. Hope to see you there!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Sex and the Single Girl
The second thing I said when Jamie and I broke up was that I was not even going to consider dating again for at least six months.
(If you're wondering what the first thing was, it's best to leave that to your imagination. Suffice it to say, there was a good bit of profanity and high-pitched invective. Try, if you will, to imagine the dulcet tones of a Tarantino movie being run through a fax machine.)
But yes. The dating again. I admit, nearly three months out, I'm torn on the whole idea.
Picture it in terms of a night at the bar. The rational side of me is the friend that tells you that you've had enough to drink for now, you have work in the morning and you remember the last terrible hangover you had, it was awful, wasn't it, now let's get your coat. The emotional side of me is the friend saying that you can just relax and have fun exactly the way the night is going, no pressure, it's okay to take things easy once in a while, have some mozzarella sticks.
This would be all well and good if it weren't for my libido, the shit-show friend at the bar buying everybody in the room a shot of tequila, god damn it, because we're still YOUNG AND ALIVE WOOOOOOOOOO heeyyy, where'd my bra go?
You see the dilemma. In the end, the shots always start to seem like a good idea.
I recognize that it's not the 1950s anymore and that sex doesn't need to take place inside of a committed relationship. It's certainly not a foreign concept in my own life. (I don't want to say I used to be a bit easy, but my little black book has volumes and a bibliography.) The problem is that I just don't get the gratification from no-strings-attached flings like I used to. It just seems like so much effort to shave my legs and pull out the A-game for someone I couldn't see hanging out with afterwards and ragging on terrible reality television over beer. At the very least, I'd like a good-humoured fist bump after on a job well done.
I guess that's the part that gives me away right there. It's not just the sex I miss, it's the feeling of connection, however fleeting it might be. You know the feeling I mean, the one in that moment right where being naked stops being awkward and funny and starts becoming something else altogether; when even if it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe or your life or even your week, it means something right in that instant.
It's probably another tell-tale sign that I'm getting older when even my vagina is starting to go sentimental on me. I guess the Cuervo can be put on hold for another little while.
(If you're wondering what the first thing was, it's best to leave that to your imagination. Suffice it to say, there was a good bit of profanity and high-pitched invective. Try, if you will, to imagine the dulcet tones of a Tarantino movie being run through a fax machine.)
But yes. The dating again. I admit, nearly three months out, I'm torn on the whole idea.
Picture it in terms of a night at the bar. The rational side of me is the friend that tells you that you've had enough to drink for now, you have work in the morning and you remember the last terrible hangover you had, it was awful, wasn't it, now let's get your coat. The emotional side of me is the friend saying that you can just relax and have fun exactly the way the night is going, no pressure, it's okay to take things easy once in a while, have some mozzarella sticks.
This would be all well and good if it weren't for my libido, the shit-show friend at the bar buying everybody in the room a shot of tequila, god damn it, because we're still YOUNG AND ALIVE WOOOOOOOOOO heeyyy, where'd my bra go?
You see the dilemma. In the end, the shots always start to seem like a good idea.
I recognize that it's not the 1950s anymore and that sex doesn't need to take place inside of a committed relationship. It's certainly not a foreign concept in my own life. (I don't want to say I used to be a bit easy, but my little black book has volumes and a bibliography.) The problem is that I just don't get the gratification from no-strings-attached flings like I used to. It just seems like so much effort to shave my legs and pull out the A-game for someone I couldn't see hanging out with afterwards and ragging on terrible reality television over beer. At the very least, I'd like a good-humoured fist bump after on a job well done.
I guess that's the part that gives me away right there. It's not just the sex I miss, it's the feeling of connection, however fleeting it might be. You know the feeling I mean, the one in that moment right where being naked stops being awkward and funny and starts becoming something else altogether; when even if it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe or your life or even your week, it means something right in that instant.
It's probably another tell-tale sign that I'm getting older when even my vagina is starting to go sentimental on me. I guess the Cuervo can be put on hold for another little while.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The First Day
The first day of the rest of your life doesn't come the way you expected, with rings and champagne and lace. Instead, it comes with packing a bag and leaving in a haze, looking back at the home you've made together and wondering why every brick isn't falling out one by one.
It doesn't even matter why at this point. Reasons don't change reality and the fact that you can never go back. Oh sure, you've broken up before, but always in that childish way where you don't ever really separate because you're together as much in your fighting as you are in your laughter. This time there's a snap of cold finality to it, the separation of assets and finding a home for your beloved dog. To do this, you must really mean it. And you do.
Your resolve shocks even you.
***
Friends come out of the woodwork to comfort you and ask what happened, to offer couches and shoulders and wine, for which you are so grateful you can't even express it. Everyone talks about how much better off you are, and how it would have been so much worse with kids, and how they never really liked him that much anyway. It's all well-meant but doesn't help when you still love someone. You have to agree out loud because telling them that you still get butterflies when you think of him is just Not Done. Maybe your heart, foolish and broken but loud as ever, is just expected to catch up with your brain.
***
Eventually, you begin to figure out and really understand all the things people tell you. A friend's song about a woman who gives up her life for a man who doesn't love her resonates with you in a way that it never has before. You think you might like to see the Pacific someday, as if there was something stopping you before.
Everything reaches an equilibrium of okay until your parents come to take your dog to live with them and he cries and whines when you get out of the truck. All you want to do is bury your face in his fur and tell him that you're sorry, this isn't his fault, you should never have told him he was a bad dog for chewing up your lipstick a few weeks ago. Maybe he is just a dog and doesn't understand, but you remember how he crawled into your lap and licked your face when you cried and you know that he understands what a broken heart feels like. You hope he'll forgive you like he always does, just this one more time.
***
You drink way too much wine at a friend's party. You know it even as it's happening, but you just don't care. It dulls reality a little more and you and reality aren't exactly on the best terms this week.
The hangover the next day makes you feel like you're purging demons out of your body. Maybe you are.
***
Before you know it, you're in the new place, with two strange girls who seem very nice, but they were never part of your plan. It's a single bed, which makes you grateful for the lack of empty space next to you. As you sit in the rubble of boxes that mean your new life is about to begin, you remember learning to ride a bike. The memory, almost twenty years old, is as fresh as a lucid dream.
***
The training wheels were freshly off and your daddy still held the handlebars. You begged him not to let go because you knew you couldn't do it by yourself. It's too hard, too scary. Big girls can do it, but in your heart of hearts you don't think you are one yet.
Your daddy let go and you screamed, falling on the pavement. You knew this would happen, the scrapes and blood and failure. You whimper and sniffle and put the bike away, swearing you'll never get on it again.
Little by little, you start to resent the feeling that you're somehow less than the other girls who seem to do it with no problem. You get angry at yourself for settling for something less than everyone else seems to manage.
You silently pull the bike out of the backyard one July afternoon. You take it to the parking lot of the church, whispering a prayer to God that you don't hit your head and bleed to death from falling.
You fall. Of course you fall. But you get back up. You can do this alone. Balancing without someone holding you starts to come naturally. One foot in front of the other without even thinking of it. Suddenly you don't think about the pavement below, just the sun on your face and the clouds over your head and the wind in your hair. And you laugh, all alone doing circles in the Bethel Pentecostal Church parking lot, because you're not scared anymore.
You've got to get up, little girl. There's a whole sky waiting for you.
It doesn't even matter why at this point. Reasons don't change reality and the fact that you can never go back. Oh sure, you've broken up before, but always in that childish way where you don't ever really separate because you're together as much in your fighting as you are in your laughter. This time there's a snap of cold finality to it, the separation of assets and finding a home for your beloved dog. To do this, you must really mean it. And you do.
Your resolve shocks even you.
***
Friends come out of the woodwork to comfort you and ask what happened, to offer couches and shoulders and wine, for which you are so grateful you can't even express it. Everyone talks about how much better off you are, and how it would have been so much worse with kids, and how they never really liked him that much anyway. It's all well-meant but doesn't help when you still love someone. You have to agree out loud because telling them that you still get butterflies when you think of him is just Not Done. Maybe your heart, foolish and broken but loud as ever, is just expected to catch up with your brain.
***
Eventually, you begin to figure out and really understand all the things people tell you. A friend's song about a woman who gives up her life for a man who doesn't love her resonates with you in a way that it never has before. You think you might like to see the Pacific someday, as if there was something stopping you before.
Everything reaches an equilibrium of okay until your parents come to take your dog to live with them and he cries and whines when you get out of the truck. All you want to do is bury your face in his fur and tell him that you're sorry, this isn't his fault, you should never have told him he was a bad dog for chewing up your lipstick a few weeks ago. Maybe he is just a dog and doesn't understand, but you remember how he crawled into your lap and licked your face when you cried and you know that he understands what a broken heart feels like. You hope he'll forgive you like he always does, just this one more time.
***
You drink way too much wine at a friend's party. You know it even as it's happening, but you just don't care. It dulls reality a little more and you and reality aren't exactly on the best terms this week.
The hangover the next day makes you feel like you're purging demons out of your body. Maybe you are.
***
Before you know it, you're in the new place, with two strange girls who seem very nice, but they were never part of your plan. It's a single bed, which makes you grateful for the lack of empty space next to you. As you sit in the rubble of boxes that mean your new life is about to begin, you remember learning to ride a bike. The memory, almost twenty years old, is as fresh as a lucid dream.
***
The training wheels were freshly off and your daddy still held the handlebars. You begged him not to let go because you knew you couldn't do it by yourself. It's too hard, too scary. Big girls can do it, but in your heart of hearts you don't think you are one yet.
Your daddy let go and you screamed, falling on the pavement. You knew this would happen, the scrapes and blood and failure. You whimper and sniffle and put the bike away, swearing you'll never get on it again.
Little by little, you start to resent the feeling that you're somehow less than the other girls who seem to do it with no problem. You get angry at yourself for settling for something less than everyone else seems to manage.
You silently pull the bike out of the backyard one July afternoon. You take it to the parking lot of the church, whispering a prayer to God that you don't hit your head and bleed to death from falling.
You fall. Of course you fall. But you get back up. You can do this alone. Balancing without someone holding you starts to come naturally. One foot in front of the other without even thinking of it. Suddenly you don't think about the pavement below, just the sun on your face and the clouds over your head and the wind in your hair. And you laugh, all alone doing circles in the Bethel Pentecostal Church parking lot, because you're not scared anymore.
You've got to get up, little girl. There's a whole sky waiting for you.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Mrs. Jong-Il
James says:
how about we get an island, no way off, and turn it into Running Man meets Big Brother
Lynn says:
I'm not saying you don't have good ideas
Lynn says:
They're just a little... ethically questionable
James says:
i'm JUST trying to make the world a better place
James says:
but APPARENTLY, trying to re-make the world in your own image means you have a "god complex" and you are legally barred from public office
Lynn says:
You'd be surprised how sensitive people are about that
how about we get an island, no way off, and turn it into Running Man meets Big Brother
Lynn says:
I'm not saying you don't have good ideas
Lynn says:
They're just a little... ethically questionable
James says:
i'm JUST trying to make the world a better place
James says:
but APPARENTLY, trying to re-make the world in your own image means you have a "god complex" and you are legally barred from public office
Lynn says:
You'd be surprised how sensitive people are about that
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Officer, I swear, those pellets are nutritional
Reason #462 Why Jamie and I Will Be Terrible Parents:
(Discussing what to do with the puppy when we stay at a hotel)
Lynn says:
He'll be fine
What are we going to do when we have a baby?
James says:
hehe
I dunno, but Probably not leave it overnight on its own heheh
Lynn says:
Give it one of those hamster water bottles on the crib
Few chew toys
It's kind of the same
James says:
heheheheheheheh
THIS is how we end up on the news
Lynn says:
Or with a baby that can run for hours on a wheel
(Discussing what to do with the puppy when we stay at a hotel)
Lynn says:
He'll be fine
What are we going to do when we have a baby?
James says:
hehe
I dunno, but Probably not leave it overnight on its own heheh
Lynn says:
Give it one of those hamster water bottles on the crib
Few chew toys
It's kind of the same
James says:
heheheheheheheh
THIS is how we end up on the news
Lynn says:
Or with a baby that can run for hours on a wheel
Monday, August 31, 2009
The One Where Everyone's Up All Night
A few weeks ago, my supervisor at the youth centre called me into the office. Since he is very laid-back, almost to a fault, I was more curious than worried.
"So... the kids have a Wake-A-Thon coming up," he began.
I nodded, feeling a spark of dread begin in the pit of my stomach as I waited to hear what this had to do with me.
"You know this could get you a lot of hours."
"It would."
"Labour Day weekend is coming up."
"It is."
"If you do this, you can have a four-day weekend."
"Right."
"Your evaluation is next week."
"I will make this the best gosh-darn Wake-A-Thon these kids have ever been to."
7:00 PM: Innocence
I went in expecting the usual crowd of kids. They're a good bunch, all around 16 or 17 years old and mostly good friends, with the odd disagreement usually handled pretty smoothly. They play a lot of Monopoly, an activity I find loathsome as it combines two of the things I hate most (finance and men with mustaches) but is overall pretty wholesome.
I walked into a melee of fifteen or so teenagers, two puppies, and the ear-bleeding sounds of Katy Perry. The ones that weren't having a dance party in the office were sucking down Red Bull like mother's milk, sitting amongst empty cans scattered like shrapnel across the centre.
I had brought a book, anticipating a certain amount of quiet. It never came.
8:32 PM: Lust
"If you absolutely must straddle your boyfriend, please do not do it here. Thank you."
8:49 PM: Feasting
I will never understand the need for teenage girls to make every statement sound like a question. Like, my sister is a moron? And Edward Cullen is so dreamy? And you kind of look like you want to curl up and die right now?
The youngest three of the girls left (including the aforementioned moron sister), since they had not gotten permission slips. Thankfully, one of them took the nipping puppies with her. The other two staff members showed up with food, and the kids descended upon it like locusts. I tried to reach my arm in to get a cookie. I'm sure it will heal any day now.
10:24 PM: Smoke
One of them got the bright idea that the smoke machine and strobe light from last year's Halloween party would make an awesome addition to the dance party, which was now focused heavily on The Black-Eyed Peas. I will accept my own portion of the blame for this one, since I didn't do anything to stop it.
Long story short, the smoke detector went off. As they opened the door to let out the smoke, light still flashing intermittently, all I could imagine was that this was going to be sampled for the next big dance hit, "Where There's Smoke, You're Fired".
12:15 AM: Conflict
"We want to go for a walk."
"What? Now?"
"Yeah. Let's go for a hike."
"Leaving aside the fact that the permission slips don't even begin to cover it, I'm not having a bunch of teenagers out roaming the streets on a Friday night. It's too dangerous."
"I know tae kwan do!"
"Not even close to the point. You guys are minors."
"My fake ID says I'm 19!"
"Oh man! Why didn't you say so? We could go clubbing!"
"Really?!"
"NO."
12:38 AM: Knots
If you have never, in all of your employment history, had to implore an adolescent boy not to hog-tie any more of the kids at the youth centre, I feel very sorry for you indeed.
1:25 AM: Reason
"Now look, you guys. I understand sometimes you get on each other's nerves, but you can't handle it like this. You can't call him an idiot. And you, you can't slap him. It's disrespectful and doesn't solve anything. Next time you guys can find a way to handle it better, or I'll handle it my way, which neither of you will like. Are we clear? Okay, back to your game."
I opened my mouth and my mother's voice came out. I would have been less shocked to hear Zu'ul.
3:01 AM: Boredom
After all options were exhausted (including Monopoly, the Wii, card games, and doing their best to level the centre), the kids were bored, so we set up one of the movies we rented for them. This was also a chance for the staff to curl up on uncomfortable chairs in the office and try to get some rest before some kind of syndrome set in.
"OH MY GOD! That guy is cutting off that other guy's EYELID!"
Maybe The Haunting in Connecticut wasn't the best choice. Hey, I didn't rent it.
4:42 AM: Cracks
This is the latest I have stayed up in about ten years. Sober, anyway. I can feel myself getting crazy-eyes. I briefly consider leaving my notice and getting in the car and driving somewhere far, far away, where people take vows of silence and no one puts their bare ass on centre equipment or anyone else.
6:07 AM: Hope
They started to clean up, each one bitching about how the mess wasn't really theirs so they shouldn't have to clean it up. Elves then, I suppose, left all the cans of Red Bull and Dorito crumbs scattered hither and yon.
The Dorito crumbs were mine, but I didn't say anything. This is a good life lesson.
6:48 AM: Triumph
I drove home in pure daylight, golden and beautiful. I saw the sun reflect off of church windows and the dewy grass, nearly crying tears of joy.
I crawled into bed with Jamie and listened to the quiet. He stirred slightly and mumbled.
"Baby," I cooed, "How do you feel about a vasectomy?"
"So... the kids have a Wake-A-Thon coming up," he began.
I nodded, feeling a spark of dread begin in the pit of my stomach as I waited to hear what this had to do with me.
"You know this could get you a lot of hours."
"It would."
"Labour Day weekend is coming up."
"It is."
"If you do this, you can have a four-day weekend."
"Right."
"Your evaluation is next week."
"I will make this the best gosh-darn Wake-A-Thon these kids have ever been to."
7:00 PM: Innocence
I went in expecting the usual crowd of kids. They're a good bunch, all around 16 or 17 years old and mostly good friends, with the odd disagreement usually handled pretty smoothly. They play a lot of Monopoly, an activity I find loathsome as it combines two of the things I hate most (finance and men with mustaches) but is overall pretty wholesome.
I walked into a melee of fifteen or so teenagers, two puppies, and the ear-bleeding sounds of Katy Perry. The ones that weren't having a dance party in the office were sucking down Red Bull like mother's milk, sitting amongst empty cans scattered like shrapnel across the centre.
I had brought a book, anticipating a certain amount of quiet. It never came.
8:32 PM: Lust
"If you absolutely must straddle your boyfriend, please do not do it here. Thank you."
8:49 PM: Feasting
I will never understand the need for teenage girls to make every statement sound like a question. Like, my sister is a moron? And Edward Cullen is so dreamy? And you kind of look like you want to curl up and die right now?
The youngest three of the girls left (including the aforementioned moron sister), since they had not gotten permission slips. Thankfully, one of them took the nipping puppies with her. The other two staff members showed up with food, and the kids descended upon it like locusts. I tried to reach my arm in to get a cookie. I'm sure it will heal any day now.
10:24 PM: Smoke
One of them got the bright idea that the smoke machine and strobe light from last year's Halloween party would make an awesome addition to the dance party, which was now focused heavily on The Black-Eyed Peas. I will accept my own portion of the blame for this one, since I didn't do anything to stop it.
Long story short, the smoke detector went off. As they opened the door to let out the smoke, light still flashing intermittently, all I could imagine was that this was going to be sampled for the next big dance hit, "Where There's Smoke, You're Fired".
12:15 AM: Conflict
"We want to go for a walk."
"What? Now?"
"Yeah. Let's go for a hike."
"Leaving aside the fact that the permission slips don't even begin to cover it, I'm not having a bunch of teenagers out roaming the streets on a Friday night. It's too dangerous."
"I know tae kwan do!"
"Not even close to the point. You guys are minors."
"My fake ID says I'm 19!"
"Oh man! Why didn't you say so? We could go clubbing!"
"Really?!"
"NO."
12:38 AM: Knots
If you have never, in all of your employment history, had to implore an adolescent boy not to hog-tie any more of the kids at the youth centre, I feel very sorry for you indeed.
1:25 AM: Reason
"Now look, you guys. I understand sometimes you get on each other's nerves, but you can't handle it like this. You can't call him an idiot. And you, you can't slap him. It's disrespectful and doesn't solve anything. Next time you guys can find a way to handle it better, or I'll handle it my way, which neither of you will like. Are we clear? Okay, back to your game."
I opened my mouth and my mother's voice came out. I would have been less shocked to hear Zu'ul.
3:01 AM: Boredom
After all options were exhausted (including Monopoly, the Wii, card games, and doing their best to level the centre), the kids were bored, so we set up one of the movies we rented for them. This was also a chance for the staff to curl up on uncomfortable chairs in the office and try to get some rest before some kind of syndrome set in.
"OH MY GOD! That guy is cutting off that other guy's EYELID!"
Maybe The Haunting in Connecticut wasn't the best choice. Hey, I didn't rent it.
4:42 AM: Cracks
This is the latest I have stayed up in about ten years. Sober, anyway. I can feel myself getting crazy-eyes. I briefly consider leaving my notice and getting in the car and driving somewhere far, far away, where people take vows of silence and no one puts their bare ass on centre equipment or anyone else.
6:07 AM: Hope
They started to clean up, each one bitching about how the mess wasn't really theirs so they shouldn't have to clean it up. Elves then, I suppose, left all the cans of Red Bull and Dorito crumbs scattered hither and yon.
The Dorito crumbs were mine, but I didn't say anything. This is a good life lesson.
6:48 AM: Triumph
I drove home in pure daylight, golden and beautiful. I saw the sun reflect off of church windows and the dewy grass, nearly crying tears of joy.
I crawled into bed with Jamie and listened to the quiet. He stirred slightly and mumbled.
"Baby," I cooed, "How do you feel about a vasectomy?"
Friday, June 19, 2009
Losing Stevie: A Love Story, Sort Of
I still remember the very first time I saw him. I was nineteen, giddy, and he fairly sparkled in the July sun. Not like that pussy Edward Cullen, mind; more like a young David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, shiny and full of promise and vaguely sexual in a weird way I didn't understand. I fell in love immediately.
Dad was there with me, and we were talking about car options. We were looking for something used (excuse me, "pre-owned") but relatively reliable. We were talking about a little Dodge Neon in front of us, which I thought of the same way I think of Tom Hanks. Sure, he's steady and nice enough, but he doesn't excite you and the thought of riding him day after interminable day just makes you feel resigned to a life of headaches. The Neon was okay, but Dad noticed how my eye kept wandering over to the silver Pontiac Sunfire. "You like that one?"
"It's alright," I lied.
Dad knew me better than that. I drove off in a silver streak an hour later, singing along with the stereo at the top of my lungs about teenage wastelands.
***
The first few months together, like in any new relationship, were blissful. Everything ran as smoothly as it was supposed to and we didn't ask much of each other. I can't even count how many times it was just me and him on the highway with no particular place to go but going anyway. I called him Stevie, for reasons once significant but now lost to history.
Winter presented the first challenge. Stevie was not built for snow and sleet and slippery roads, but he trundled on. One snowstorm found us just barely crawling toward home. He faltered a little, groaning in protest.
"Come on, baby," I pleaded, "We're almost home. Don't quit on me now."
The encouragement seemed to work. He gave one mighty roar and brought us back to the driveway and stopped with a flourish. I patted his icy bonnet when I got out and thanked him for a job well done.
***
One morning I was awoken early by my roommate's mother. As pleasantly as I could, I grumbled out the question of why she was stirring me from sleep.
"Someone hit your car outside. They're downstairs," she said.
My eyes widened and I put on pants as quickly as possible, my internal monologue going a mile a minute.
For fuck's sake, HOW do you hit a car parked on a residential street easily wide enough for THREE CARS? In broad DAYLIGHT? What level of bone-dense idiocy are we possibly working with here? Do you have the attention span of a squirrel on crystal meth? What the pissing fuck?
A guy in an SUV was down by Stevie, looking somewhat sheepish but not nearly as contrite as I thought was necessary. The side of my car was all banged up.
The side of my car is all banged up. MY CAR. You son of a bitch, I'll have your balls for this. I'll hang them from my rearview mirror like jaunty little testicular DICE. Just you god damn wait.
"Yeah, I dropped my cigarettes and leaned down to get them, and just... yeah. You know how it is." He gestured lamely at the damage with a chuckle. I gave him a deadpan glare, and his chuckle faded. He meekly offered his insurance information while I tried to kill him with my mind.
The rental car I drove while Stevie was getting repaired was all wrong. It was too big, too fancy. It felt like driving a yacht. I was so happy to get him back and promised that he'd never get dented again. A woman running a stop sign, another bad snowstorm downtown, and a mystery hit-and-run would break that promise.
***
The problems started to come a couple of years ago. First the alternator died (at midnight, like Cinderella's Fairy Godmother was somehow in charge) in the parking lot of my job the next town over. Then the engine sensors went crazy. Then the power steering line burst. Then the engine died. Then the transmission began hitching. Then the radiator fan blew up.
Little by little, I grew to resent Stevie. He was a drain on my tenuous finances, and after a few years of hard living, only barely resembled the shining opportunity I had seen on that first day. Where once there was excitement and affection, there was now only contempt and grim obligation. I grumbled at his noises of complaint, and he grudgingly took me from Points A to B when he felt like it. He gained the mocking nicknames of Chewbacca and Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, and I forgot why he was called Stevie in the first place.
When my mechanic explained how now I'd have to manually pop a fuse in and out to run the radiator fan from now on, giving me a look of sympathy, I knew it was time to let go.
***
As we went to different dealerships and test-drove new cars, Jamie couldn't understand why I wasn't excited.
"You know that thing has to be replaced," he said gently.
The thing is, Stevie isn't just "that thing" to me. For six years, he was a friend, and sometimes the best one I had. I was young and starting out, psyching myself up for interviews in that thing. I was depressed, antisocial and heartbroken, and I took that thing to deserted parking lots to smoke cigarettes and cry along with Fiona Apple. I made out with unsuitable boys (and a couple of suitable ones) in it, dug it out of snowbanks with friends after impromptu sleepovers, and had conversations in it that lasted until dawn on days I had to work, causing the windows to fog up and me to call in sick.
Tonight we're going to hopefully drive home a new Hyundai Elantra, and while it's really nice, it doesn't wow me in the same way that Stevie did. I know how crazy that is, because it's not like he's a nicer car, but I think he was there in the right place at the right time, at that period in your life where you fall so hard and so fast. It's like your first love and how it reminds you of who you were then, and how much you've changed.
Tomorrow Stevie is gone, and in his place will be just another broken-down old Sunfire, barely of use to anyone. Seeing him in the driveway in the sun, he doesn't sparkle anymore. Really, he's gone already, cruising around in some dusty memory, bass thumping wildly and going somewhere I can't follow.
Dad was there with me, and we were talking about car options. We were looking for something used (excuse me, "pre-owned") but relatively reliable. We were talking about a little Dodge Neon in front of us, which I thought of the same way I think of Tom Hanks. Sure, he's steady and nice enough, but he doesn't excite you and the thought of riding him day after interminable day just makes you feel resigned to a life of headaches. The Neon was okay, but Dad noticed how my eye kept wandering over to the silver Pontiac Sunfire. "You like that one?"
"It's alright," I lied.
Dad knew me better than that. I drove off in a silver streak an hour later, singing along with the stereo at the top of my lungs about teenage wastelands.
***
The first few months together, like in any new relationship, were blissful. Everything ran as smoothly as it was supposed to and we didn't ask much of each other. I can't even count how many times it was just me and him on the highway with no particular place to go but going anyway. I called him Stevie, for reasons once significant but now lost to history.
Winter presented the first challenge. Stevie was not built for snow and sleet and slippery roads, but he trundled on. One snowstorm found us just barely crawling toward home. He faltered a little, groaning in protest.
"Come on, baby," I pleaded, "We're almost home. Don't quit on me now."
The encouragement seemed to work. He gave one mighty roar and brought us back to the driveway and stopped with a flourish. I patted his icy bonnet when I got out and thanked him for a job well done.
***
One morning I was awoken early by my roommate's mother. As pleasantly as I could, I grumbled out the question of why she was stirring me from sleep.
"Someone hit your car outside. They're downstairs," she said.
My eyes widened and I put on pants as quickly as possible, my internal monologue going a mile a minute.
For fuck's sake, HOW do you hit a car parked on a residential street easily wide enough for THREE CARS? In broad DAYLIGHT? What level of bone-dense idiocy are we possibly working with here? Do you have the attention span of a squirrel on crystal meth? What the pissing fuck?
A guy in an SUV was down by Stevie, looking somewhat sheepish but not nearly as contrite as I thought was necessary. The side of my car was all banged up.
The side of my car is all banged up. MY CAR. You son of a bitch, I'll have your balls for this. I'll hang them from my rearview mirror like jaunty little testicular DICE. Just you god damn wait.
"Yeah, I dropped my cigarettes and leaned down to get them, and just... yeah. You know how it is." He gestured lamely at the damage with a chuckle. I gave him a deadpan glare, and his chuckle faded. He meekly offered his insurance information while I tried to kill him with my mind.
The rental car I drove while Stevie was getting repaired was all wrong. It was too big, too fancy. It felt like driving a yacht. I was so happy to get him back and promised that he'd never get dented again. A woman running a stop sign, another bad snowstorm downtown, and a mystery hit-and-run would break that promise.
***
The problems started to come a couple of years ago. First the alternator died (at midnight, like Cinderella's Fairy Godmother was somehow in charge) in the parking lot of my job the next town over. Then the engine sensors went crazy. Then the power steering line burst. Then the engine died. Then the transmission began hitching. Then the radiator fan blew up.
Little by little, I grew to resent Stevie. He was a drain on my tenuous finances, and after a few years of hard living, only barely resembled the shining opportunity I had seen on that first day. Where once there was excitement and affection, there was now only contempt and grim obligation. I grumbled at his noises of complaint, and he grudgingly took me from Points A to B when he felt like it. He gained the mocking nicknames of Chewbacca and Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, and I forgot why he was called Stevie in the first place.
When my mechanic explained how now I'd have to manually pop a fuse in and out to run the radiator fan from now on, giving me a look of sympathy, I knew it was time to let go.
***
As we went to different dealerships and test-drove new cars, Jamie couldn't understand why I wasn't excited.
"You know that thing has to be replaced," he said gently.
The thing is, Stevie isn't just "that thing" to me. For six years, he was a friend, and sometimes the best one I had. I was young and starting out, psyching myself up for interviews in that thing. I was depressed, antisocial and heartbroken, and I took that thing to deserted parking lots to smoke cigarettes and cry along with Fiona Apple. I made out with unsuitable boys (and a couple of suitable ones) in it, dug it out of snowbanks with friends after impromptu sleepovers, and had conversations in it that lasted until dawn on days I had to work, causing the windows to fog up and me to call in sick.
Tonight we're going to hopefully drive home a new Hyundai Elantra, and while it's really nice, it doesn't wow me in the same way that Stevie did. I know how crazy that is, because it's not like he's a nicer car, but I think he was there in the right place at the right time, at that period in your life where you fall so hard and so fast. It's like your first love and how it reminds you of who you were then, and how much you've changed.
Tomorrow Stevie is gone, and in his place will be just another broken-down old Sunfire, barely of use to anyone. Seeing him in the driveway in the sun, he doesn't sparkle anymore. Really, he's gone already, cruising around in some dusty memory, bass thumping wildly and going somewhere I can't follow.
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