Raven
Diamond Member
I married a car guy. I get it. It's a hobby. You buy a piece of shit car for a song and with some time, money, and elbow grease, you turn it into something reliable and pretty (and maybe turn a profit). I like to tell people that I met a guy who had a creepy mustache and a Camaro, that I agreed to have sex with him in exchange for the Camaro, and that the unfortunate fine print of the trade was that he came with the Camaro and that it was a standing agreement.
And I get it. A man only feels like his balls are descended when he's on the road if he's in a truck or a hot rod.
This man wanted a '94 full size Blazer. Not a Bronco. Not a Tahoe. It had to be a Blazer. It was in Connecticut, so we spent Monday taking public transit two states over for a car we could have found at a junkyard in Newark because this car just got a brand new transmission last February and the motor is still in excellent shape. For the price we paid, we couldn't expect it to be reliable. It was the bare minimum price for a truck that runs, and if we really want to, we could sell the transmission and the motor for more than we got the car for.
Grand Central Station. We saw an older gentleman in a tattered old 'Nam era uniform. He was holding a POW-MIA flag that was attached to a unit flag. My husband was just wearing his hat, and I was hiding in plain sight. After the man proudly disappeared down a corridor, I said to my husband, "There's the veteran's day parade." Only after I made that comment did I realize how disturbingly true it rang. Nobody gives a shit. There was actually a Veteran's Day parade in NY and I'm sure he was just a remnant of it who was not quite ready to stop marching until he got home, but it was still rather sad. At least we got free Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
The guy selling the Blazer in Connecticut was honest about the condition of the car--that it needed frame work done (that's an understatement, I think it needs a brand new frame), that the wiper arms were missing (but oddly the blades were still in the car), that there was a small leak in the gas tank (not expensive to replace if you can do it yourself), some body rust (easily sanded and sealed until we get around to addressing the body and having it repainted flat black), that the brake pads were critically low, and some other stupid shit. That would be the first thing we'd address when we get back home--the brake pads.
Okay, it's not in very good shape but it goes and it stops, right? We can at least get it back to Jersey and keep it in the garage until we can make it reliable enough--gas tank, break pads, wipers.
But the f*cking plunger had to fall out of the caliper when we took it on the highway because the goddamn brake pads were so low!!! Or something... I don't f*cking know what... After the truck tried to kill me by not stopping when the brake pedal was against the floor and we avoided an accident with some pretty skillful driving on my part (and throwing it into park when it slowed down enough), I let my husband deal with it. The truck had already given me an ulcer. And tried to kill me. And it hurt my hand when I punched it, which it deserved. The asshole tried to kill me!
Demon!
We refilled the brake fluid to see what would happen, and unsurprisingly it got pissed right out. Fine, we spend the night in Connecticut, which I didn't want to do, and we went to a mechanic early in the morning.
On the way to the mechanic, I made my idiot husband drive it. I bitched at him for getting a truck that tried to kill me. I don't care that he was in the passenger seat during our scare the previous night, the truck assaulted me directly. I bitched at him for dragging my ass to Connecticut for a car we could have gotten closer to him. I bitched at him that it was too cold in the motel room last night and thus, it was his fault I could not sleep. It was also the Blazer's fault.We got to an intersection and the damn thing kept on rolling (even though he had been driving like 5mph) He snapped it into park. It stopped. Then the moron took it out of park and got surprised when it started rolling again, so he had to snap it back into park. I yelled at him about it and he yelled at me about it and I hit him with my bag, as pissed off women are wont to do--Couldn't he understand that it was completely logical that if he was going to make me sit in that death trap without brakes, he should brake when I tell him to?! Luckily, the mechanic was right across the intersection, and traffic was nice enough to see that we were having issues so they waited until we finagled the truck into the mechanic's parking lot.
Coincidentally, the mechanic was a 'Nam vet himself. He and my husband talked sharp in the shop while I chain-smoked outside and hung out in the library across the street. If I don't look at that car and I don't deal with it, I can pretend it doesn't exist and that I'm vacationing in Bumblef*ck, Connecticut for the hell of it.
The brake lines were in good condition, and the problem was fixed within a few hours for a very fair price. The mechanic was a decent guy, and he confirmed that while the truck was in pretty bad shape, we did get a good price for it. I'm still not 100% sure what happened to the brake because every time my husband wanted to discuss it, I told him I don't want to hear it. He got the point quickly enough and stopped trying to tell me about it.
Somehow, we managed to get it home without being pulled over by a cop for having an unplated piece of shit truck (though we wouldn't have been able to get plates anyway without the title, which we had just gotten the day before). ...And the damn thing is too tall to fit in the garage so we can't even hide the source of the gasoline smell from our neighbors until we get a new gas tank, which will be Friday or Saturday because gas tanks for a truck that old aren't just sitting around.
Here. Truck porn. Not really.
No, I don't want to help him with the damn thing after it tried to kill me! Did I mention it tried to kill me? Fine. Maybe I'll help him if I can resist the urge to send it into the f*cking ocean while he's at work and then tell him I have no idea where it went.
How the f*ck does he put up with me?
And I get it. A man only feels like his balls are descended when he's on the road if he's in a truck or a hot rod.
This man wanted a '94 full size Blazer. Not a Bronco. Not a Tahoe. It had to be a Blazer. It was in Connecticut, so we spent Monday taking public transit two states over for a car we could have found at a junkyard in Newark because this car just got a brand new transmission last February and the motor is still in excellent shape. For the price we paid, we couldn't expect it to be reliable. It was the bare minimum price for a truck that runs, and if we really want to, we could sell the transmission and the motor for more than we got the car for.
Grand Central Station. We saw an older gentleman in a tattered old 'Nam era uniform. He was holding a POW-MIA flag that was attached to a unit flag. My husband was just wearing his hat, and I was hiding in plain sight. After the man proudly disappeared down a corridor, I said to my husband, "There's the veteran's day parade." Only after I made that comment did I realize how disturbingly true it rang. Nobody gives a shit. There was actually a Veteran's Day parade in NY and I'm sure he was just a remnant of it who was not quite ready to stop marching until he got home, but it was still rather sad. At least we got free Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
The guy selling the Blazer in Connecticut was honest about the condition of the car--that it needed frame work done (that's an understatement, I think it needs a brand new frame), that the wiper arms were missing (but oddly the blades were still in the car), that there was a small leak in the gas tank (not expensive to replace if you can do it yourself), some body rust (easily sanded and sealed until we get around to addressing the body and having it repainted flat black), that the brake pads were critically low, and some other stupid shit. That would be the first thing we'd address when we get back home--the brake pads.
Okay, it's not in very good shape but it goes and it stops, right? We can at least get it back to Jersey and keep it in the garage until we can make it reliable enough--gas tank, break pads, wipers.
But the f*cking plunger had to fall out of the caliper when we took it on the highway because the goddamn brake pads were so low!!! Or something... I don't f*cking know what... After the truck tried to kill me by not stopping when the brake pedal was against the floor and we avoided an accident with some pretty skillful driving on my part (and throwing it into park when it slowed down enough), I let my husband deal with it. The truck had already given me an ulcer. And tried to kill me. And it hurt my hand when I punched it, which it deserved. The asshole tried to kill me!
Demon!
We refilled the brake fluid to see what would happen, and unsurprisingly it got pissed right out. Fine, we spend the night in Connecticut, which I didn't want to do, and we went to a mechanic early in the morning.
On the way to the mechanic, I made my idiot husband drive it. I bitched at him for getting a truck that tried to kill me. I don't care that he was in the passenger seat during our scare the previous night, the truck assaulted me directly. I bitched at him for dragging my ass to Connecticut for a car we could have gotten closer to him. I bitched at him that it was too cold in the motel room last night and thus, it was his fault I could not sleep. It was also the Blazer's fault.We got to an intersection and the damn thing kept on rolling (even though he had been driving like 5mph) He snapped it into park. It stopped. Then the moron took it out of park and got surprised when it started rolling again, so he had to snap it back into park. I yelled at him about it and he yelled at me about it and I hit him with my bag, as pissed off women are wont to do--Couldn't he understand that it was completely logical that if he was going to make me sit in that death trap without brakes, he should brake when I tell him to?! Luckily, the mechanic was right across the intersection, and traffic was nice enough to see that we were having issues so they waited until we finagled the truck into the mechanic's parking lot.
Coincidentally, the mechanic was a 'Nam vet himself. He and my husband talked sharp in the shop while I chain-smoked outside and hung out in the library across the street. If I don't look at that car and I don't deal with it, I can pretend it doesn't exist and that I'm vacationing in Bumblef*ck, Connecticut for the hell of it.
The brake lines were in good condition, and the problem was fixed within a few hours for a very fair price. The mechanic was a decent guy, and he confirmed that while the truck was in pretty bad shape, we did get a good price for it. I'm still not 100% sure what happened to the brake because every time my husband wanted to discuss it, I told him I don't want to hear it. He got the point quickly enough and stopped trying to tell me about it.
Somehow, we managed to get it home without being pulled over by a cop for having an unplated piece of shit truck (though we wouldn't have been able to get plates anyway without the title, which we had just gotten the day before). ...And the damn thing is too tall to fit in the garage so we can't even hide the source of the gasoline smell from our neighbors until we get a new gas tank, which will be Friday or Saturday because gas tanks for a truck that old aren't just sitting around.
Here. Truck porn. Not really.
No, I don't want to help him with the damn thing after it tried to kill me! Did I mention it tried to kill me? Fine. Maybe I'll help him if I can resist the urge to send it into the f*cking ocean while he's at work and then tell him I have no idea where it went.
How the f*ck does he put up with me?
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