I had to run into town to pick up snacks for the road trip and my meds. I started to get a hunger headache — what I get for skipping breakfast. I find myself thinking Arby’s. The guy at the window was the Manager – a nice guy. Hispanic, older fella – he cracks me up every time I see him. Yea, we think Arby’s a lot around here. Well, here I am sitting in my car, enjoying the warm and muggy weather … (no, not really). He leans out and asks – “You like your car?” I smile and quietly say yes. He smiles big and says (imagine a cross between George Lopez and Cheech. “No, I know you like your car — it has HEMI.” He asks me if I mind telling him how much. Now — I don’t brag about the car or house notes. They are part of life, and I hate them.
I drive a fierce, brilliant black muscle car with more horsepower than my IQ, weight, and age combined. This bitch has so much romp off the line that she will damn near break your neck if you aren’t payin’ attention. Yes, she sucks 2x as much gas as a Prius. But we didn’t get her for the MPG. The car note reflects all of that — it’s not like the note I had on the Dodge Neon I had – but it ain’t a NEON either.
Now, we aren’t rich either. HELLO — if we were — we wouldn’t have car notes. Right?
So when he asks “What is the payment — how much you pay? – Maybe cinco – five hundred??” I tell him — I think with gas, insurance, and the note it’s about 8″ … Without taking a breath or missing a beat, he blurts out —
“EIGHT — I think maybe your husband, he love you too much!”
I just smiled. It is true. My husband does love me too much – I am spoiled there is no doubt.