SECRET STUFF

This is my car. It is a 2004 Subaru Forester XS - the first real substantial purchase of my adult life. I can recall the day clearly, when my previous car, my mother's old Ford "Exploder" did exactly that - exploded. Somehow I had made it to the age of 26 driving hand-me downs from my parents. The most recent being a 10-year-old Explorer called Clyde. Clyde didn't literally explode like in the movies, of course, but there was a fair amount of smoke and funny noises expending from the vehicle just before it completely pooped out. It was the day before Christmas Eve and I was attempting to finish up my Christmas shopping at Orange County's South Coast Plaza. If there is one place you should avoid at Christmas time in Orange County, it is South Coast Plaza, particularly when you are fighting a mean flu bug. After inching my way up and down rows upon rows of parked cars for over an hour, I had just about had it. Apparently Clyde had had it too. With fleet of cars behind me, in a narrow parking aisle I felt the car shutter, heard the kaboom and then saw smoke. That is when the honking and cursing began from the halted drivers who were no longer inching and were missing out on the perfect spot. OH NO. What to do? I stepped out of Clyde and looked back at the line of angry drivers. I mouthed the word "sorry" and gave them an apologetic shrug. They returned my gesture with some not-so-kind gestures that were certainly not in the Christmas spirit. The Auto Club arrived within an hour, however it took them another 35 minutes to maneuver the traffic block I had caused just to get to me. Shortly there after I sadly watched Clyde be towed away into the distance. Somehow then, I knew it was the end.

I called my dad from inside Gap Kids. When I heard his voice, I lost all composure. Perhaps it was the flu weakening me, or the pressures of the Holiday, but tears instantly sprung to my eyes and I was having trouble speaking. The sales woman looked at my sympathetically and brought me a tissue. I finally managed to explain what had happened. At which point, dad said, "Cathi, maybe it's time to buy a new car."

Hmmm. You see, Clyde and I had had some good times. We had been through a lot together - camping trips to Mex, tailgating to Laker Games, surf trips with the girls, weekend jaunts up to Mammoth Mountain, quality time in LA traffic. But, we also had our share of bad times, especially recently - a broken gas gage, broken console, new brakes, new roters, a couple flats, a detached rear-view mirror. How much more could I put into Clyde - both financially and emotionally. Clyde was 10. He had lived a good life. I knew my dad was right. It was time to move on.

Two months later after much research and few trips to the car lots, I found myself the proud owner of a Subaru Forester, equipped with all-wheel drive, six CD changer, seat heaters, and the largest moon roof you could ever imagine. This sport utility wagon was exactly what I had in mind. It was large enough to still accommodate my active lifestyle, yet small enough to be fuel efficient and manageable. Popular with the mountaineering-folks of the Rockies and with a fair number of lesbian gym teachers, of which I am neither, it was my ideal car. I was excited, and though I now had car payments for the first time in my life, it was mine.

For four years the Sub (pronounced 'Soob') and I have been hanging tough, and when Nathan and I decided to make the move to New York it was decided the Sub would come with us. I was actually really against the idea of taking a car to NYC with all of the mass transit available and the entire city a subway ride or cab fare away. I also did a little research to find out that the price of parking the car was almost as much as my monthly car payment. Nathan, however had his own ideas. He planned to surf the East Coast, which meant he needed a car. No "A-Train to Rockaway" for him. He explained that the need for a car "came with the territory," and I understood. The man is passionate. He assured me he would take full responsibility for the Sub including parking fees, insurance, etc. which he has and continues to do.

The Sub arrived about a week after we did and was pulled off a truck right on to Hudson St. I must say I was excited to see the little guy in its new habitat. That is about where the excitement ended. The next day at work I received a call from Nate who had some "bad news."

"Here it comes," I thought to myself. Yes, the car had been towed and could I meet him at Pier 60 to sign for it at noon? I could not help but laugh, knowing he didn't want to tell me, but needed to as I am the rightful owner of the car and the only one of us who could legally sign. Pier 60 was about a seven avenue walk from my office. I began the trek over, thankful that I wore flats to work that day. $185 later, with a pat on the back and a very sarcastic "welcome to New York," from the tow yard worker, we were on our way.

Two weeks of moving the car from spot to spot on the streets of Greenwich Village to avoid towing and tickets, we decided to pay the first of many monthly fees to park the Sub in a lot off of Westside Hwy. We were left with few other choices, given we were leaving for our wedding and honeymoon for almost three weeks. The Sub now lives in a lot safely with other vehicles awaiting warmer months, when it can be released from its cement prison and drive off to weekends in the Hamptons or, in Nate's case, to surf.

When we returned from our honeymoon we found we had missed six packages from UPS. Yikes. We cabbed it down to UPS headquarters to claim them. Once we got there we realized we had forgotten the slips and the nasty UPS woman would be NO help without them. We were near the Sub's lot, so we decided instead of cabbing it back we might as well grab the car. We walked into the structure, past hundreds of other abandon cars, covered or otherwise, until we saw the Sub in all its white glory. We hopped in, and made our move to exit the garage when I noticed that the "spare" was kicking it in the back seat. Wierd. "Nate, why is the spare in the back seat?"

He explained that he got a flat. I wondered out loud why he didn't tell me. Oh...because he didn't want to worry me. He was going to buy a new tire as soon as he could, and I would never be the wiser. Hmmm....secret stuff. It turns out his tire had been slashed when he was out surfing Long Beach (we have one here, too). I wasn't angry about the tire, I was angry he didn't tell me, on top of the fact that we soon realized all six of our packages (wedding gifts) had been returned to their originators while we were gone. I was in a foul mood and can honestly say that it was my first "bad" night in the NYC. Upon our return to the apartment and after some resolve with customer service shipping department at Crate & Barrel, we came to the agreement there would be no more secret stuff, especially involving the Sub - the first real substantial purchase of my adult life.

Live and learn. Someday next summer when we are cruising down (or up?) to the Hamptons with the moon roof open, warm wind in our hair and music playing, we will both look at each other and be so pleased that we brought the Sub, so we don't have to take some bus to our weekend destinations. It's the hurtles that make us stronger and thankfully give us something to laugh about later. Cheers to the Sub and its new life in NYC. Perhaps we'll get NY plates so the tires won't get slashed when a surfer boy from California out shreds them all.