I Am the "Winter Car Guy"

Last April, I was in the market to buy a car. I was home from L.A. for good this time. I was getting back on my feet, getting my money and career straightened out. My dad, the king of angles, had a buddy that was selling cheap, due to a pregnant spouse. It was a Mustang, a little older, nonetheless sexy. The previous owner was an all-American good ol boy, a mechanic moonlighting at an auto parts store. This car was his toy, his mistress. Nothing on this Mustang was half-assed. From the low profile rims (coincidently, I have no idea what that means) to the chromed out engine, I love every inch of that freaking car. Now, that glistening monument to Detroit muscle sits, covered, layered under 6 inches of snow. Sigh.


Sleet and salt, will not ruin my baby. So, I have reluctantly purchased a winter car. Realistically, although nimble and precise, that 2-wheel drive isn’t helping anyone out that first snow. My Mustang is a sled in the winter. It is like wearing stilettos to play basketball. Under 3 inches of snow, nobody’s rims look ‘dope’. I have become the winter car guy. I again, happened into a situation where a friend was selling their car, I had cash. Wheeling and dealing, my friend hooked me up with a great car and a great deal. 4 doors, 4dependable tires, a go hard or go home engine and oooooooh, trunk space for days. Yes, I own 2 cars. (And yes, I realize how Eddie Griswold this is.)

But, I used to get checked out by drooling, strapping teenage boys. Standing there with their bubblegum and Slurpees, they’d wonder, “Is that a cold air intake?” And to my rearview mirror, I’d say, “Yes. Yes it is. “ And then roar out of the parking lot. My engine was so loud when I tore through side streets, lesser car’s alarms would squeal as I spun by. At the gas station, as I pumped in the premium $4 a gallon petrol, I used to get cruised by middle-aged arrogant car snobs. “Yeah, “ I used to say, “it’s a 97…Yeah, it’s in really good shape…yeah, a V-8, uh huh, GT, yeah. It is pretty nice,” and in their surprised, envious faces, I’d toss my hair. The sun would glint off the immaculate paint job and I’d run my hands over the cold, smooth steel. I used to have a cool car. The kind of car you don’t mind washing. In a confederate flag bikini and cut-off jean shorts. (Cowboy boots optional.) I’d get the wave from other Mustang owners. Once, some chick literally sped up to give me a thumbs up. Do you think that happens in a Buick? No. It really doesn’t.

Now I’m getting trolled by the soccer mom mafia, it’s some broad with painfully blond hair and a tracksuit, speeding up to see if I’m skipping out on my car-pooling duties. Oh, and I’m not your son’s homeroom teacher. So, kindly go ahead and get back into your own lane, lady. Thanks. I am a tiger in a housecoat, vacantly staring into the abyss of the uninspired mainstream from my window perch. It is a glimpse of my eminent demise and it’s all a little too much to be all right with.

My tall drink of water boyfriend loves my new car, it’s roomy, he looks like he’s on a sofa. A sofa full of groceries. Don’t get me wrong. This car is a great car. It’s a great deal, it was a perfect solution. It’s a smart, sensible, do-the-right-thing-winter-car. It’s got some chops, too. It’ll move. However, there are some major differences.

For instance, now, when I drive like an idiot, people are actually pissed off. I get the angry headshake or the hands up signal. Before, it was an “ohhhhh, YOU” type of response. Almost like most motorists expect to get cut off by or left in the dust of a fast, sexy car. I mean, I don’t mind when a sexy car smokes me. It’s the nature of things. You’re car sucks, mine rules. True story. However, I think we all know which side of the coin I’m on now.

Before, I could ironically rock Dio, Guns n Roses, the occasional Billy Squier and it was just the order of things. It just isn’t the same now. My radio mysteriously will only tune into smooth jazz and, like, the Maroon 5 channel. My IPOD must be pissed, too. It will not give me Jay-Z, now it’s punished me with non-stop Sheryl Crow. My car is a lame Knight Rider, a lot less KIT, and a lot more Angela Lansbury. More Herbie the Luv Bug than Transformers’ Bumblebee.

I wish that it were a hooptie. I wish that Xhibit were waiting in my driveway to pimp my ride that would make this all a little more interesting. Truth is, I miss my baby, my ‘Stang. (I say that with a clear idea of how ridiculous it sounds.) I miss that 2-door, Ralph S. Mouse sized, gas-guzzler.

The fact is, I’m strutting around town in a mom car, a grown up, mid-level entry car that happens to smell like a fart. It is the color of everything else, urban camouflaged mediocrity. It is haphazardly littered with dings and gouges into that emotionless, vanilla ice cream paint scheme. Did I mention that the dash is buried underneath an ounce of some sort of moon dust dirtlike substance. I keep meaning to clean it off. It seems that I am too busy dropping the kids off at karate class and getting a venti Latte for $8.

I now know why the cure for a mid-life crisis is a sweet-ass whip. It’s badass, there is something so anti-establishment and Bob Seger-ish about some hot, nasty speed. You feel virile and sexy, dangerous and on the edge. Somehow paying too much for gas and oil changes is truly living on the edge. Honestly, at the end of the day, what are most important are safety, economy, and things like that…really. I mean that.

I itch for the summer. I dream of the day that I unveil my baby, clean it up, put on some thick new tires and drive. Until then, I will eek by in my practical, standard issued vehicle, silently waiting my turn and waving everyone safely to merge. I take the road well traveled. For now. But, understand me, once the winter breaks, it is game on. If a Mustang blows by you with “Against the Wind” blaring, this spring, yeah, that was me.