A Maryanne Mistake


It is true I have come to the time where I am saying goodbye to my car that has delivered me into adulthood. I already miss my dear Fitzgerald (named after someone’s dead cat), and I acknowledge that we had good times together. I thank it for being my home away from home when I needed to escape and I needed to cry to Chelso through long night hours. I thank it for not falling apart on me when I drove it into the ditch. I thank it for taking me to your place in the mountains on the weekends and for being able to fit as much as a small truck could in its trunk. I thank it for helping my parents move and for shoving an entire twin bed in its vacant back. I thank it for many debates with people regarding what difference of the color beige vs champagne/pearl is. I thank it for feeling safe in its metal fortress even though every trip was a gamble. But it’s time to say goodbye.

Goodbye to noises loud enough to turn heads in drive thrus. Goodbye to carrying duct tape with me everywhere for “just in case.” Goodbye to troubles going uphill and listening to only what my old tape cassettes or the radio could offer. Goodbye to being able to drive anywhere without a seatbelt, and being able to see my car a whole parking lot away because of its big pearly butt being a beacon. Goodbye to leaving giant oil puddles everywhere. Goodbye to terrible “oh my god” moments when the tire well of my car would randomly fall out on the freeway. Goodbye to smells that would infuse itself in any clothing or fabric (or hair) for any solid length of time spent inside of it. Goodbye goodbye goodbye.

It will always hold a special place in my memory, just like I’m sure your old Volvo does for you. I know there’s got to be a reason you write about it and keep it on your keychain. I know you are familiar with these feelings I’m experiencing. But this past weekend I moved onto my new little Toyota and am enjoying so thoroughly the thrill of a great deal and of being able to get inside something and know it starts. It sits over the oil puddle of my last car and it just paints a picture for me of change. My mom and I bought it over in Flagstaff (where all the good deals live) and I sent my mom off with the new car. In some ways, she was more excited about this than me. And I knew it might be one of the last times I drove my old Fitzgerald, so I wanted to have a last journey. On the way home I spent it all trying to catch up with my mom, since she caught the light ahead of me heading out of Flag. It wasn’t until 40 or so minutes later that I see wide fields of tall grass and little towns I’m not familiar with that I think I might not be where I should be. The map above is when I googled home to discover I am no where near where I should be. I had become too excited and ready for this change that I took the completely wrong road for miles and miles. Almost out of gas, and I would’ve had a dead phone had the salesman not charged it at the dealership. So, unable to think of any lie to cover up this Maryanne mistake, I call my parents and told them the situation despite my embarrassment. Also just barely found a gas station when I’m sure my car was working off gas fumes. But it was a beautiful and majestic ride back with my old car companion and I hope you’ll find it somewhat interesting.

I am in awe of your drive and I’m happy to see you really shine doing what you love. I cannot wait to take my car out to see you sometime and I’m so happy you were one of the few people who supported me getting a new car vs a thoroughly used one. I look forward to seeing you dear Chelso, it already feels like it’s been too long.

I had a blast trying to figure out which picture went with what googled phrase.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s