Pickles & Dimes

My car: Hey, there.

Me: What? You’re talking to me? No. Talking to me means bad news.

Car: I was just wondering if you noticed that weird marble-rolling sound when you turn the corner.

Me: Um…yes…

Car: Are you going to do anything about it?

Me: Besides telling myself it’s something rolling around in the trunk? N-o.

Car: You don’t have anything in your trunk.

Me: And until I actually check to confirm that, I can believe otherwise.

Car: You know it’s probably something to do with the rear passenger window.

Me: Lalalalalala!

Car: I don’t know why you just paid the mechanic to jimmyrig the window back up instead of paying another $100 to actually have it fixed.

Me: Money is tight!

Car: He used zip ties! ZIP TIES. The other cars mock me.

Me: It seems to be working though. And I think they’re mocking you because you’re a Chevy Cavalier.

Car: Then why are you afraid to go through a car wash?

Me: Well, the window seems to have opened a teeny tiny itsy bit and I’m not taking any chances. Besides, anytime I wash you in the wintertime, you refuse to open your doors.

Car: That was ONE TIME.

Me: Twice.

Car: Whatever. I just wish you took better care of me. I could use some new tires, maybe a new battery… a rear window that isn’t held together with 49-cent pieces of plastic.

Me: Dude. I spent more than $1,400 on you this summer. You got new brakes, a new alternator…that’s seven months of car payments!

Car: And I’ve given you seven months of good service since then so your point is moot.

Me: Grrr.

Car: By the way, it took your husband to point out that one of my tires is low.

Me: Uh-huh.

Car: And he’s the one who’s also telling you to check my oil.

Me: But I’m the one who always knows when and how to add the coolant, am I right?

Car: Do you care about me AT ALL?

Me: Dude, I’ve had you for 12 and a half years, why are you pulling attitude now?

Car: Don’t think I don’t know about your secret searches on cars.com.

Me: Oh, is that what this is all about? I’m just preparing a Plan B.

Car: Sure you are.

Me: Look. I want you to make it to 200,000 miles. Don’t you want that, too?

Car: That would be nice.

Me: Yeah. I’ll take your picture, and I bet you get a nice plaque or something for that.

Car: Ooh…a plaque!

Me: Think of how you can rub that in the other cars’ faces, huh?

Car: That would be nice.

Me: So just keep chugging along, OK?

Car, begrudgingly: I’ll think about it.