Forbidden Love

Have I mentioned I hate big decisions? I do. What a REALLY hate are the conversations six months later.

"I wish I had zigged. If I only had zigged instead of zagged..."

(Oh, you noticed that I started this post with an "I hate.."?  Why yes, I am still smoke-free, why do you ask?)

We are now entering the standard "Big Long Story" portion of the post: the part that exists to befuddle you before we tie the opening statement and the title all together at the end. You may proceed.

Daisy the Dakota is dying, a slow and painful death. A couple of months ago, I noticed anytime Daisy idled (for instance, at a stoplight) her oil pressure gauge dropped to nothing. I've had her looked at twice for that, with various parts changed to no avail. Now, I just rev Daisy to keep her oil pressure up instead of allowing her to idle. The people ahead of me in the Mickey D's drive-thru LOVE when I do that!

Last week (on the one day it didn't rain) I turned on her air conditioning for the first time this year. I watched her temperature gauge immediately rush to the danger zone. Fortunately, we weren't far from home and when I turned her heater on it dropped again; the girls and I only had to play mobile sauna for about a mile.

And, Monday, she reminded me that wet weather just DOES NOT suit her; she died in the parking lot at P.D.'s school. She made all those teasing noises that say "If you'll just keep trying to start me, I might just go..." as behooves her sadistic tendencies. Of course, this was before I got B.B. dropped off, and only 45 minutes before my scheduled follow-up meeting in C-town for a THE internship... the one that is far more amazing than any I imagined I would be lucky enough to land... the one where the supervisor-to-be (The MC) specified in our previous meeting that I'd need reliable transportation.

Of course, I did what any resourceful single mom with all the emotional control of a counselor-to-be would do in this situation: I proceeded straight to my much-deserved nervous breakdown; then called Sabrina crying hysterically. Sabrina was able to decipher enough of my gibberish to come and get us, take me to drop off B.B., and calm me down enough to notify The MC that I'd be about 20 minutes late. She even thought to bring a book to read so she wouldn't be bored during my meeting.

God loves me. He gave me Sabrina.

As we drove to C-town, we discussed my need to buy something reliable. I told Sabrina I began looking the Friday before, after my first meeting with Mr. F (edit: now known as The MC). I whined about having such a hard time finding something I could afford without mega-miles on the odometer. She asked me what I had priced, then stopped me.

"Kelly, those are all trucks."

"Uh, yeah."

"Why haven't you looked at any cars?"

Because I drive a truck. I've driven a standard-shift truck, of one make or another, nearly my whole adult life. I belong in a truck. Really, would I look right in a sedan? A coupe? Pul-eeze. My truck is an extension of who I am.

Okay,  I learned to like Kitty, I learned to trust her. She was responsive and aimed to please. But she was an exception. I'd be okay if Kitty was still around, but even if Lying Lady had not lied, and her insurance company had paid, Kitty's repairs would cost more than her book value. I didn't think I'd find another Kitty.

Sabrina reminded me/enlightened me about a few things on our trip that day:

1. I, apparently, am such a boy!
   "You fix plumbing, you took apart your mower, you have your own tool-box. You talk about trucks the way most women talk about jewelry."
   Well, okay, yeah, I knew that. I'd much rather do the "honey-do's" than the housework.
   
   
2. "You need to get over the idea that you need a truck. Trucks are expensive to buy, and expensive to own. You need a car if for no other reason than the gas-mileage."
    Well, yeah, I knew that, too. Auto companies stopped making fuel-efficient trucks in the 90's.
   
   
3. Driving a person around who seldom rides with other people (and who has A.D.D. to boot) is much like driving around with Sabrina's Labrador in the front seat. Said person is used to watching the road, so when said person doesn't have to, said person's head zips around with a similar zeal.
   "Oooh, look at that! And that! And THAT!"
   Apparently, taking me places is quite amusing.

I accept Sabrina's assessments, and I at least told her I accepted # 2.

After my meeting, she took me to a car lot she recommended because she knew the owner was a stand-up guy. She waited in her car while I looked.

I even gave that older model red Grand Am serious consideration. I dickered with the salesman for a better deal (and, according to Sabrina, I am such a boy at negotiation too.) But then, the salesman had to mention it...

The 2003 F-150 extended cab that they were repairing at the shop up the street to get it ready to sell. Clean title. 93,000 miles.She booked for $8,000. Had a loan value of $6,800. Might be able to let me have it for $5,400.  You can go look at it if you like...

I got back in with Sabrina and tried to look nonchalant.

"I don't know about that car, Sabrina, I think I better let my father-in-law look at it..."

"Oh, stop, you forgot all about that car the second he mentioned that truck."

Sigh.

After lunch Sabrina took me back to Daisy who by this time was feeling much drier and more cooperative. I took Daisy straight my mechanic and insisted he check her distributor cap. Yep. Thirty minutes and fifty bucks  later we were back in business.

I tried not to think about that F-150, even as I was turning the wrong way (toward the car lot's shop. not home) out of my mechanic's.

I went to see her. She's beautiful. V-6 motor. A milky silver color. Supercab. Sport package. Two rear suicide doors that preserve her sleek lines. (I'm not into Crew Cabs.) Black bed cover. Lots of leg room up front, acceptable leg room in the back. Good stereo. Automatic transmission, but I can overlook that. Automatic windows. Keychain door locks. (I never had THOSE before!) I looked it up, she'd likely get 14 mpg in the city and 20 mpg on the highway...

I *could* make my route back and forth to my internship highway miles as much as possible...



She looks a lot like this one, but with a bed cover instead of that silly rack. I'd look good tooling around in that, no?

Yesterday I took her paperwork to run it by Perry, one of Deat's closest friends here in L-town. He said No.

Last night I called Pat the Wonder Brother and told him about her. He said No.

Tomorrow, I'll take G. and V. to see her so they can say no.

Mostly because I know I should, but I don't want to say no.

I've always secretly wanted an F-150, but it just does not appear to be in the cards for me. I'm going to have to say no.

I hate making big decisions because I have to be PRACTICAL.

But wouldn't "Felicity" be a nice name for her?