Our cars are fighting.

“I, Julie, take you, Scott, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.”

SIGH.

No, we’re good. We’re good. We’ve been through it all – better, worse, worse than that, rich, poor, ramen-noodle poor, the man-flu, and we’ve peaked in health and athletic ability.

I thought we merged our assets beautifully, really. Walk into our home and you’ll see, well, Scott and me. You’ll see deer high up on the wall. You’ll also see flowers, fluffy blankets and candles. It smells like femininity and maybe a waft of burnt dinner. Scott has his own office with a sliding barn wood door. The wood is from a barn built in 1910. I have a writing room with my own fireplace. There’s a giant white marlin on the wall. I caught that. Words are everywhere.

We built this home from dirt. We intertwined each other into it. It’s a solid home. It’s a lovely home. The only nook where you’ll find two separate lives is the garage.

SIGH. Until death do us part.

Merge these assets into one: “His car” and “her car.”

A Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord.

Scott’s car and my car – they’re not even dating. They hate each other. Scott and I are in the market for a car. It won’t be the only car but for the sake of making a long story short – it will be an equally shared car. The Ford and Honda need to go. 

My car thinks his car has a bad case of truck syndrome. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. That engine roaring behind you in your rearview. The dominating force *asshole* on the open road. You better move over or you may be adding yourself to those dents and scratches that make up Scott’s car battle wounds.

Vehicle.

I apologize. His vehicle.  Scott doesn’t drive a car. He drives a vehicle. How dare I call such a man-made-God-fearing-machine a car. 

My car doesn’t understand his vehicle. And Scott’s vehicle doesn’t understand my car. There’s not a whole lot to understand about a dependable car like a Honda Accord. It blends in. Scott’s legs spread eagle on the dash is the only thing that would ever call attention to a Honda Accord. Scott’s car nicknamed my car “duck butter.”

In order to understand Scott’s vehicle and my car, you need to go back. Way back. Circa 1997 when my dad took me to a cemetery to learn how to drive because, “Well, you can’t kill anyone here. They’re already dead. Just don’t kill your old man.”

I learned how to drive in a cemetery in a 1995 Chevy Cavalier. It was turquoise and adorable. And my dad is alive and well, thank you. I moved on to a 2001 Mitsubishi Eclipse Coupe; a 2005 Land Rover LR2; and now a 2014 Honda Accord. The only complaint I have is the bike handle scrapes down the side. Even though my kids are out of carseats, they’re still a pain in my ass.

Scott’s vehicle history – oh, let’s see. A small, purple truck; a white Chevy Camaro with orange stripes. You could hear the engine from miles away; this truck –

truck 2

and now his current truck, a 2013 Ford F150. It’s beat up. He jackknifed the side with a trailer. It smells like something died in it because it is also a deer hearse.

How do you merge a Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord? Scott needs power, off-road abilities and space. I need something that won’t leave me curb checking all over town. Oh, and large vehicles make me park in two parking spots because I, too, get truck syndrome. I like low to the ground and sporty. 

I figured it out – a Jeep Wrangler.

Scott told me I’m out of my mind (so?), they’re a waste of money (what car isn’t?) and I’ll kill the family with those crash test ratings (the 2017 model improved, Scott). My friend, Christine, also told me to knock off the Jeep Wrangler talk because it shows the world I’m having a midlife crisis. I’m 35. No midlife crisis. Mark my words – Christine will be taking selfies in my Jeep on our joy rides.

Feel the wind in your face, Christine!

I decided on red. Why not? It will go with my red lipstick that I need to steal back from Kate. It can pull a trailer, I think. It can handle the off-roads on the farm. And there goes Scott! Giving his dead deer a final adventure in a Jeep Wrangler! What a hearse!

I’m losing this battle. Scott doesn’t think my Jeep jokes are funny. They’re not jokes. I’m serious.

SIGH.

How do you merge a Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord?

___________

Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram

Maybe I’ll post our car shopping pictures. Or maybe you’ll see me in a Jeep.

 

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