Car-pe Diem

After five years of dedicated service, yesterday I bid farewell to my sweet ride, my 2000 Pontiac Grand Am.  It was the color of rotten meat, it had an ever-present check engine light blinking on its dashboard and it shook heavily every time it went over fifty miles an hour, but I did love it.  Stockholm Syndrome, probably. 

What, pray tell, am I doing for a chariot now?  I am the proud new owner of a forest green 2005 Buick Century.  It's fancy schmancy and has a remote to open and close the doors and pop the trunk.  Welcome to 1999, Taryn Harper Wright.

Where am I getting all of these lovely vehicles?  My dad sells used cars.  I know, and yes, I am ashamed.  I'm sorry though, when you look like this, what else is there to do but become a Chicago cop and sell used cars as a side job?  He had no choice.

His business slogan is "Wright Cars, Wright Prices, Jack Wright."  His repossession rate is right around 50%.  In fact my new little cream puff is a repo with 100,000 miles on it.  It's seriously extremely nice, though, and it was free.  It's the ONLY perk of being my father's daughter, so I take advantage of it any chance I get, even though I am nearly 32 years old.  He used to have a summer house which was nice too, but now that that's gone, the car thing is the only bonus to being his kid.

Having a father in the used car biz has lead to some interesting moments.  My first car was a 1984 Chrysler LeBaron named Nellie.  It could start without keys- you'd just turn the ignition and off you'd go.  My friends used to move it during their free periods in high school, so every afternoon was a game of Where's Nellie.  There was a timer built into the dashboard, which is the dumbest feature ever to include in a car driven by a seventeen year old.  I timed my commute every day, trying to shave off precious seconds by running stop signs and driving into oncoming traffic.  I have no idea how I survived.

He also had a 1976 Buick Limousine.  It was a rust bucket clunker, but its horn played "La Cucaracha" and we had a chauffeur hat.  We drove it to school dances and other events, always making a confusing half-hillbilly, half-fancy pants impression, an impression I strive to replicate every day of my life.

Probably the most infamous of my dad's cars was the one that ran on a metal can of gasoline lodged in the trunk.  It was composed mostly out of duct tape and it had a barbecue grill on its front hood.  There was a button next to the ignition and when you pressed it, flames would shoot out of the grill on the front hood.  My friends and I drove it around the neighborhood with steaks on the grill, slowly cooking them with shooting flames as we drew looks from passersby.  These childhood experiences really can't be replicated or underestimated.  I am truly a lucky lady.