Baby Family Growing up Travels

dear formerly brand new acura,

As I ran my gentle hands along your imposing curves today, applying soap, water, and a chamois to your body, I remembered how far we’ve come together the last 4.5 years, and I remembered the promises we made to one another during our courtship in March 2004.  And, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I brought Toddler into your backseat, a backseat that was supposed to be reserved for colleagues and copulating.  Especially when Toddler’s Tiny Bottom brought its close next door neighbor with it,  Urinating Vagina, who may or may not have been protected by her guardian, Diaper.

I’m sorry I reneged on my promise that your insides would forever be a “no food” zone.  It’s just that I hate screaming…or any loud noise that doesn’t emanate from an electric guitar, really.  It’s probably resultant from PTSD that came from sleeping next to an active runway in a war zone before I bought you.  So, I allowed some Cheerios to enter your lair.  And then, some raisins.  Then came liquids.  I did limit the liquids to water only, though, remember?  Nothing sticky or stinky.  But the perforated leather surrounding Toddler’s carseat certainly does not resemble its youthful appearance on the day I made the sales manager stay two hours past closing as I pulled my “I’m leaving unless you’ll give it to me for a couple hundred over invoice” charade.  But if it makes you feel any better, your driver isn’t as pretty as he was that day, either.

I know I promised to vacuum your mats every weekend and wash you every time your shine had dulled.  But then the city government prohibited it the last two summers…something about a drought.  I’m sure Al Gore will save us, and then we’ll go back to leaving sprinklers on all night and bathing every day.

Despite all these failings, could you please continue to take care of me?  You see, I care more now about your contents than I did a few years ago.  You’ve probably noticed that I tend to dart between 18-wheelers less frequently than I once did, and I don’t think I’ve taken you over 100mph since W’s first term.  I know you’re almost to 100,000 miles–the point at which many owners and vehicles consider parting ways.  I have no such intention.  If you’re in it for the long haul, I am too.

I know you hate it when I talk about your predecessor, but she did carry me 187,500 miles before some emotionally unstable motherfucker stole her and wrapped her around a telephone pole.  And then I found you.  Let’s stay together another 4.5 years.  Minimum.  I promise I’ll take better care of you.  You’ll see.
Want to find a blogger who can differentiate the vagina from the urethra?  Check out these funny blogs!

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  1. avatgardener

    Amorous attorney apologizes to auto. Assuages apathy. Anticipates acquiescence. Acura accepts. Amen.

  2. Oh yes! I remember when you got it, that ‘new Acura smell.’ Alas, I too parted ways with my old TL for a cub-scout mobile. Still miss her, wine in color, gray butter leather, Bose, and the cockpit screamed of technology. 120 on I-24 seemed like nothing for that car. Well, one day…

  3. Pretty Bride

    (Sigh.) Alright. I will drive the unsexy Baby-Carrier Mini-Van full of Goldfish and Cheerios and sad lost socks. Our revered breadwinner and Muskrat Clan Leader can keep his tartlicious sportscar and feel the wind in his hairs. My gift to you, darling. I know–I’m all love.

  4. Best advice I could give any new parent : get rid of anything that you have that’s nice. Or at least put it in storage for 18 or 19 years.

  5. ‘Rat, when you talk to your car like this, it makes me feel all funny inside. Like when we went swimming at that lake, skinny-dipping I think, and your hand accidentally grazed my thigh…

  6. I once had a car [although “car” sounds so…clinical and automotive-ish] that caused these same feelings. Then it got smashed to smithereens. The CAR [intended to sound clinical and automotive-ish] I now drive is one that I refuse to acknowledge because it can never compare to its predecessor. There aren’t any personal touches or belongings. It’s simply… a car. So sad.

  7. Ah jeez that made me laugh. I just tried to clean out our van today, and there’s about $4.50 in change affixed permanantly in the console by a melted crayon … 🙂

  8. AG, Amen is right…thanks!

    Harlin, Glad I could help bring back good memories. It ain’t too late…

    PB, Yes!

    Doug, You just sucked the awesome out of my day! Not cool. Not cool at all!

    JimBob, How long have you been lurking here? Pervert. I don’t recall that night at all. At all, I tell you!

    ThatGirl, Thanks for the link…I liked your Acura story very much!

    Sherri, Maybe your car needs flames. That’ll take it to a whole ‘nother level.

    LOBO, Don’t spend it all at the bar. Unless, that’s how you roll.

  9. I may hire you to write the love letter to my minivan. But you’d better bring booze and flowers, too — it’s pretty bad.

  10. Maggie, I’d be glad to try. But even a pro has to have something to work with.

  11. I never had that conversation with my car. I wish we had such dialogue, though. But if we did, I suspect it would tell me, “STOP DRIVING ME HAMMERED, YOU RETARDED SON OF A BITCH!!” And then I’d remind it of how much fun such activity is. And we’d both laugh and head to a bar…

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