Cathie Shaffer: Is it time to say goodbye?: 9/7/10

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September 7, 2010

Staff report The Independent The Daily Independent Tue Sep 07, 2010, 01:05 AM EDT

HUNTINGTON — There comes a time in every relationship when the road gets rocky and one begins to wonder if maintaining the status quo is worth all the effort it takes.

I’m suffering through one of those now. What had once been pure, unadulterated joy and admiration has become, well, more despair and regret. The moments of pleasure, while still wonderful, are too often offset by moments of name-calling and near hatred.

Yes, for 16 years, my little beige sedan has brought me bliss. It’s traveled through snow and skidded across ice, rolled up hills and across flat land, stoically persevering no matter what I asked.

Until last Friday. I was in line at a fast food drive-through, patiently waiting my turn to order a drink when my little sedan got mad. She stopped running and refused to start again.

The embarrassment of holding up customers eager for a burger and fries was bad enough. So was calling a co-worker to come shove my car into a parking space, as was begging my son to come look at this stupid car one more time.

Worst of all as the dress transfer.

I’d borrowed a huge armload of dresses from my friend who runs Operation Prom in Greenup, loaning formals and semi-formals for not only the prom but other school dances as well. Since I have two granddaughters in high school now, both anticipating attending their homecoming dance, borrowing rather than buying seemed like a good idea.

I loaded the dresses in my car at the end of the day, eager to take them home to show them to the girls. When my sedan died, I transferred them into my co-worker’s car after he graciously offered to take me to my mechanic’s, where my other car had been worked on.

Before we left town, my son called. Since he owes me for small things like, oh, giving birth to him and then not killing him before his 18th birthday, I returned to the restaurant to await my offspring.

The dresses went with me, draped across the back of a chair as I sipped my drink and contemplated blowing up the sedan, like they do in the movies.

When Sonny Boy arrived, I put the dresses back in my car. We ran to the auto parts store, hoping a simple fix would do it. Naturally, after an hour’s worth of work, it didn’t. The car still tried hard to start, but never quite achieved its goal.

With no other option left, the dresses and I climbed into my son’s car and headed for the repair shop. I was smart

enough to drop the formals off at my house on the way, marking the sixth time I’d carted them somewhere.

I spent the evening trying to decide what to do about the stupid car. Since it’s standard shift, we should be able to bypass the usual system and jump-start the car. And I’m on a first-name basis with every tow truck driver in the Tri-State, thanks to the fickleness of my cars lately. I’m sure any mechanic would love to see that sedan roll into his shop and know that he’ll be able to put his kids through college now.

And then there’s always the “final exit” plan — putting the thing in neutral and giving it a good downhill push toward the Ohio River.

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