Ready, Aim, FIRE!

This week has been interesting. This week, Hubby's "new" car started on fire.

Picture this: You buy a new shiny car.

Granted, it is a used car, but it is not the rusted decrepit heap you (or Hubby, rather) have been driving for the past six years. It is shiny, and has a snazzy rear spoiler, and a PINSTRIPE, and a functioning AC unit, and a non-tinny audio system! OOOOH OOOH, and did I mention that it does not smoke copiously and overheat when driven farther than 4 blocks. THAT is super cool, let me assure you!

Like all used cars, the salesman told us that THIS WONDERFUL car has been driven for the past 5 years by a 90 year old woman, who knits doilies in her spare time, brushes her cat, and drives to church once an week to worship chastely, and drives to Publix once a week to buy crackers and sweet tea. This seemed quite possible (no, LIKELY) at the time, but perhaps that impression came from the noxious fumes from the engine of the overheating Subaru which addled our brains.

So we buy the sleek and pristine Saturn in all its Granny Glory (TM). We marvel at its spotless exterior which has never been backed into by my mother-in-law and we marvel at its spotless interior which has never experienced the smeary love of three children on a road trip. There are no hidden dirty diapers under the passenger seat and no footprints on the hood. It seems too good to be true. Perhaps we should have NOTICED THAT! (Foreshadowing stomps by and is ignored due to extreme exhaustion and the high of spending thousands of dollars we really didn't want to spend JUST YET.)

We drive the new green Granny Glory-mobile to and fro and marvel in its non-overheatingness and all is well. And the one day, the sweet new granny mobile won't start.

"Oh well" says Hubby. He gets a jump from a co-worker and doesn't sweat it. In the morning he jumps his new car again with the minivan and again that night after work.

"Hmmmm" says Hubby, "I think something must be wrong with the battery or alternator".

Others may have been more panicked at this point, but we are from WISCONSIN, and dead batteries are like MOTHER'S MILK to us. In Wisconsin, you send your ten-year-old out to jump the car in the morning. It's no big deal.

We agree that we need to bring the car back to the dealership to have the alternator looked at by a professional. We have a busy week (involving the fact that we have three kids and two full time jobs)and jump the car several time a day. Ho hum.

FINALLY, the day arrives when Hubby has 20 minutes of free time and I have 20 minutes of free time SIMULTANEOUSLY!! Whee!!! We are both at work. Hubby pulls the van up to the car and hooks it up to receive its customary jump so that we can drop it off at the dealership. He comes into my office to get the keys to start the new car. My assistant says "Hmmm. Look at all that smoke outside. I wonder what's burning?"

We look outside with interest and remark, "Oh, that's our CARS! ON FIRE! Awesome."






The End.


















Just kidding. Not about the fire. About the "The End".

So we pull the firey melted jumper cables off the smoking melted remains of the Saturn's battery and engine. We ascertain that the fire department is not needed. We pry melted jumper cables out of the quarterpanels and front bumpers of both vehicles. We curse a bit. We remark on how fortunate it is that Hubby did not blow his hands (or his head for that matter) off. We CURSE some more, and with greater vehemence. We inspect the smoking ruin of the interior of the engine of the Saturn.

We consider what kind of voodoo the chaste and benevolent "granny" must left on this car that would cause this kind of ruin within weeks of purchase. Or else the car has absorbed her pure and benevolent ways and considers us to be crass interlopers with grubby-handed offspring. Which we are.

So now we have entered the hell (or purgatory) of negotiations with insurance agents ("Yes, you will have to meet your deductible on each claim separately and I will probably return your phone calls only after you leave 37 messages threating my life") and car salesmen ("What do you mean, our responsibility? You didn't buy the extended warranty which costs approximately half the value of the car. Too bad.")and so on.

Think of us kindly. And for those of you in Wisconsin, don't let your ten-year-old jump the car anymore. And for once and for all; NO, HUBBY DIDN'T SWITCH THE RED AND BLACK ENDS! It was freakish thing. The car is possessed by Southern Baptist offense with our Northern Heathenish ways.