Au revoir, Cruiser: An Open Letter to My Car

Dear Cruiser,

In a few short hours, you'll be driven away to a new life away from me, and it's bittersweet.  I'd be remiss if I didn't mark the occasion with a few words.  I know you didn't hear me talk too much; you know I hate talking on the phone [and your road noise has gotten ridiculous, buddy] and my verbal communication within your navy blue walls was usually musical.  But if this was a vlog, here's what I'd say about you.

I'm sorry for not vacuuming you more often.  Over the years, you've been soiled with sand, leaves, road salt, dirty slush, powdery snow, all sorts of my bodily detritus, and you probably would've liked a few more breaks from that.  Sand was a good look on you, though.  And your driver's seat was the perfect place for me to tweeze my eyebrows.

Thanks for having such great acoustics.  I'm convinced that no woman's voice has ever sounded richer, fuller, and more beautiful than mine, singing at the top of my lungs whenever ever I had the opportunity.  Car-singing is one of my most trusted methods of feeling better.  Singing through tears, singing through road rage, singing through boredom or the nagging need to pee; you were my favorite venue for that.  I hope your next owner plays good music and has a better knack for harmony.  (Let's just admit, though-- I do a great harmony to Heart's Alone.  I owe that to you.)

I'm sorry for the time that Evone Perez vomited Goldschlager on your passenger-side seatbelt and footwell.  [Is that the right term for where one puts their feet?  Let's assume so.] You deserved better than that.  You deserved better than several decisions that were made in your seats.

Thanks for being my wheels on 5 different campaigns.  Those campaigns brought me to where I am today, and their outcomes aside, I am grateful.  Speaking of which, sorry for whichever of my Team SRB teammates spilled coffee on the driver's side of the backseat.  I think it was Mike Levin.  It wasn't intentional.  That was a trying summer.  You were witness to some very low moments.

Thanks for making entries and exits so easy for the less-than-able bodied.  You were pretty clutch during Grandpa Garbon's last years.  Remember buying all of that Goddamn mulch?  Yeah, gross.  But buying that mulch was kind of a thing at the time.

Thanks for being so easy to park.

Sorry that I never got laid in your backseat, but I'm not sorry for keeping your interior clear of sex juice.  It's difficult enough removing petrified Diet Coke from your floor mats, I can't even imagine something protein-based.

Speaking of Diet Coke-- remember that one time when I left a Wendy's cup in the leftside cupholder, and then the bottom sort of disintegrated, and then there was that pool of Diet Coke left behind, and then I used a tampon to soak it up?  That was both disgusting and awesome, and I feel awful that the mechanic saw the used tampon still in the cupholder because I was too lazy/amused/forgetful/whatever to remove it.

Thanks for always starting when I needed it, even when it took a few tries. Everyone needs an escape route and you were mine, and I am so grateful.

Thanks for looking so good with bumper stickers on your trunk door.  My candidates were lucky to have their names on you.

Thanks for being such a comfortable place to take a little rest-stop snooze.  One of my favorite naps of all time was in your driver's seat, en route to Indianapolis to see Jennie, I believe; I stopped at a rest area on 94, pushed the seat back, reclined, cracked the window, kicked my bare feet up on the dash, used my baby blanket at a cover, and wow.  That was a blissful 25 minutes.

Sorry for blaming you for my ignorance of coolant levels.  That noise you were making was awful, and I should've taken action a lot sooner.

Sorry that my ass got so sweaty during the summer; the swamp-ass you endured during the summer of 2011 was significant.  Conversely, thank you for having such high-functioning ass-warmers for the winter.  The temperature differential in every place I've lived has always been nuts, especially Michigan.  In the course of, what?, 5 months, you've endured a swing of well over 100 degrees if we're counting the wind chill factor and YOU CAN BET YOUR NAVY BLUE ASS I'M COUNTING IT.  You are a tough cookie, Cruiser.

I know you had your warm-up years with my mom, but I think your prime was with me.  And I'm very grateful.  The Runaways won't sound the same without you.

Best,

*Dana