As I was saying, if I could strangle a car, I would strangle my 2000 Jetta TDI. Not only would I strangle it, but in order to cover up the evidence, I would find one heavy, heavy brick to put on the accelerator, and I would throw my head back in laughter as I watched it plummet off of the steepest cliff I could find. (I don't know how this actually works considering it's a stick shift, but in my vengeful utopia, it works just fine.) Is it okay that I'm feeling murderous towards an inanimate object? Yes, I think it is more than okay, it is deserved, it is justified. IT IS RIGHT!!! (here is where I let off a string of German cuss words since it is a Volkswagen- well, I only know one, but for emphasis sake, let's just imagine that I know a string of them). How did I get here? Please, let me begin.
Maybe I should humble myself enough to say that it could be possible that I should be the one being strangled for making such a lousy, lousy purchase, but I would much rather have something inanimate be the victim rather than myself, who is quite animate, if I do say so myself. But still, let me be the first to say that I suffer from this complex with cars. For the sake of naming said complex, let us call it, "the car is always greener on the other side". I have played this little game for 12 years of driving and to the tune of 15 cars...I'm losing count, but I'm pretty sure that's right. Don't do the math, because, yes, it is more than a car per year.
It always starts with some brainiacical idea (word invented to emphasize how un-brainy it truly is). This latest test case began in June and the conversation went something like this in Kristaland:
Krista 1: "It's June and you know we're moving to Colorado soon"
Krista 2: "Yes, yes we are"
Krista 1: "you have a beautiful 2003 Subaru Forester and you love that it's red"
Krista 2: "You're right, I do love that"
Krista 1: "You also have a $241 per month payment. Do you love that?"
Krista 2: "NO! No, I don't love that at all."
Krista 1: "Can you even afford that, you penniless musician who just quit her job?"
Krista 2: "You're so right, what am I going to do?"
Krista 1 and 2 (in Unison): "SELL THE CAR, SELL THE CAR!!!!!"
Krista 2: "But what will we drive?"
Krista 1: "What you really need is a Jetta Diesel...They're cute and they get 50 miles to the gallon...and remember, you are a musician and that means traveling, which means lots of gas, which means lots of money and that's something YOU DON'T HAVE!
Krista 2: Oh yes, you're so right, and I've got an idea, too! We can buy a conversion kit and turn that diesel into a greasecar and when I'm out doing concerts I'll just stop off at the local McDonald's and have them load me up with some french fry grease and away I go...all people will be in awe of my ingenuity and care for the environment and I will be in awe of my ever increasing checkbook because I am not spending money on gas!"
Krista 1: "How did we ever get so smart?"
Let me pause and say that none of the above thought dialogue was falsified. Sad but true.
So I went about selling my "Red Ruby the Subee" in August and began driving my poor little brother's would be car for college: A 1994 Ford Escort Wagon: 245,000 miles. Poor kid bought into the belief that my Jetta would be coming any minute. I just had a flashback here: This is reminicent of me at 10 years old hearing some swashbuckling endtimes preacher predict that Jesus was coming back on September 8, 1988 at midnight. I bought it, hook, line and sinker and that son of a gun scared me silly. September 8th came and there I was, frozen with fear under my covers with just enough of the blanket pulled up to see the red display of my clock radio with one eye... 11:57...11:58...11:59....aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!12:00.
Nothing. No Jesus...(Did he say which time zone Jesus was in?)
True story. And all that to say, that unlike Jesus, my Jetta DID come. (Sorry, Jesus, I still do believe in you, just not in the psychomaniac rapture guy- there is a difference) But I digress.
My Jesus Jetta arrived fresh off of Craigslist...from Maine...with a busted timing belt, which equalled a busted engine...but boy howdy was this the car for me! (it also came with a busted antenna, a dangling side mirror and a dent in the fender the size of a giant's fist, all standard). I'll spare you most of the painful details except that three tows later, once to the house and twice to Nebraska and back, it still wasn't running right. I met a neat guy, Tom the tow truck man who was a musician, too. Yep, we swapped CD's over my dead Jetta. And I almost forgot that fourth tow: He traded me that one straight up for the Maine license plate for his collection (very hard to find those Northeastern states, he said).
I got it to Osborn VW repair who promptly quoted me $2600 more in repairs...this was my freak out day...the day I used my meager retirement...the day I should have gotten a clue...well, that was probably a few days before that, actually.
So it was "See ya, Osborn" and my savior brother in law, Jerry got the parts and got it up and running and in the time it took him to drive back to Nebraska, I got a call saying "Sell that car, Krista". Huh? What? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
The verdict was: Those crazy Europeans thought it would be a good idea to make all their parts cost 3 times as much, and I was going to die a slow, painful, very expensive Jetta death, even if it was running at the moment.
I was in denial for about 10 minutes. Then I swiftly put it back on Craigslist. Phone rang off the hook with all the people who just had to have a Jetta. Be my guest.
Fast Forward to this weekend: I got a 3 day temporary and decided to take it for one more ride of glory before sale day. To Nebraska and back. Easy. You know what's coming, don't you?
On the way back in to Denver it got a little sluggish. Next day, it was still sluggish. My heart is dropping because all the sudden, it feels like I'm driving a car with emphyzema and there's this wheezing, airy sound when I accelerate.
My serious potential buyer (from Portland, nonetheless) wanted me to have a pre-sale inspection, which I did today, in dread. And yes, my Jetta TDI has now become a Jetta DI. The "T" is for "Turbo" and mine is gone. Did you notice what happens when the "T" is gone? I just did. That's right, it's a Jetta DI, as in "Die". Is this prophetic? I'm going to say yes. (and don't worry, I'm not going to rip the Portland guy off). The mechanic, in his oh so sensitive way said, "Ha ha! You're going to sell this? I wouldn't even let anybody LOOK at this car!" Thank you so very much, now would you like a ride in my trunk?
I'm already so far gone into this thing, I'd cry, but it's a waste of precious energy. It is what it is. I said it was a Jesus Jetta, but unfortunately, I think the comparisons stop just shy of the resurrection. My three days temporary tags are dead and the car is following close behind. I figure that this sad saga is just my latest chapter in the book I'll write someday called, "Why I learned to ride a unicycle"...
In the meantime, where's that brick?
