I cannot say that we have a junk yard...because a junk yard keeps all their vehicles in nice little rows and ours are scattered all over, basically hidden so I don’t complain about them all the time. I have lots of stories to share about my husband’s vehicle problem, but I’ll just share my experience from last night.
After I was visiting with family all day with the kids, and he spent all day at the sale barn, it was time for me to get to work. We decided that I would go home and he would stay with the kids at his family’s house because it’s just too dang hard to drag a toddler away from fun without leaving a trail of cupcakes to the car and locking him in.
When my husband finally arrived, the most logical thing to do was switch cars because the car seats were in my car.
But he drove the Festiva. Instead of the newer truck, or the older truck, or the other truck that has no real use, he chose to drive over in the Festiva. His family live two miles from our house. It’s not like he’d be saving a ton of gas, but I could possibly lose my life driving home in a tin can.
After another disgraceful Festiva incident that I’m saving for another time, I have refused to drive one of his Festivas anywhere. He’s had multiple, and they’ve come in all colors, multi-colored too. Being the helpful and cheerful wife that I am, and that I just wanted to get home to some peace and quiet, I chose to be obliging and drove the Festiva home.
Before I left, I asked, “Any tricks with this car?”
There’s always a trick with any vehicle he owns. Here’s a few tricks from the past:
This time he said, “Nothing much,” and this is what nothing much actually means -
I left the house slowly but surely. I didn’t kill it, but it did not accelerate. I backed up to turn around while my brother-in-law was getting something out of his car, and I was taking so long and revving up the engine so much, I think he was getting nervous that I was just going to plow right into him. (Sidenote: Jake, you were just mentioned in the blog, so you were right, it all ends up in the blog).
After backing down a hill, I finally shot out of the driveway, realizing the first problem. It needs some power steering fluid, but no, no, it doesn’t. I guess it just needed a little warm up because half way home it seemed like any little nudge and I’d be on the other side of the road. That was probably the 10 MPH wind picking it up and moving it though.
He also did not warn me of the decorative steering wheel cover that does not stay in position, so as I tried to pull out of the driveway, I almost went into the embankment across the gravel road. At this time, I also realized that the brakes don’t work, until they do, then the car stops as my body continues hurdling forward. I made it down the gravel and had a short stint on the highway, and when I pulled out onto the highway, I was all alone, so I could just sail home.
But no, that didn’t work out either. It took so long to get going as this little tin can was put-putting down the highway, soundly slightly like a chain smoking bumble bee, that of course, a very large truck came barreling up behind me. Great! I’m was going to have to turn soon, with testy power steering and dangerous brakes.
I turned the blinker on and slowed down, but that truck kept on coming. Hmmm, he didn’t mention a blinker being out, but I wouldn’t suspect he would. That’s not necessary on a vehicle that doesn’t need an inspection for another year.
I made it though, refusing to slow down anymore, actually unable to because the brakes were scared as well. So I flew into the driveway and made a quick 90 degree turn and still managed to down shift before I killed it. Winner winner, chicken dinner. I even opened and closed the gate without a problem. The problem came though when the little Festiva with 12 inch tires met its driveway nemesis - the two foot deep mud hole.
That’s when I killed it. I rocked back and forth trying to get it out, I reversed into more rocky mud, and spent a minute trying the old standby - gun it out of pure anger and hope that it just magically digs its way out. Then I remembered what I was driving, a lightweight Festiva. My six month old weighs more than that car. Yes, as my husband says, he looks like he’s on full feed, but I can still lift him. I gingerly got out of the car and picked up the Festiva, moving it to dry ground.
No, not really, it slammed down pretty hard and just bounced right out. Hopefully I didn’t leave any parts behind (but really I don’t care). I made it home and thought about parking it downhill toward the woods but thought better of it. If the brakes did “magically” give out, it would get beat up, lose the mirrors, shatter the windshield, and my husband would still drive it.
I was given hope this week though. My mother-in-law was stuck with my father-in-law’s Festiva and it broke down at the grocery store. He had her nice car and she was stuck with the old beater. By the end of the night they both owned nice cars. I don’t know what went down for that to happen, maybe some cursing, stamping of feet, a baseball bat to the hood, no telling, but it happened. I have a dream that one day, I too, will have a husband that can no longer steal my dependable car to get around. He too shall have his own dependable car, not by choice, but from manipulation, yelling, guilt, and a little fear.