A Car Story
Yesterday morning started off great. I made a stack of pancakes for Maya and her sleepover friends, I cleaned up the house, watered the plants, ate breakfast, and then informed Ali that if he didn’t come home with a car by the end of the day, then he shouldn’t come home at all. Although I meant this as a threat I could see Ali contemplating the upside: sure he’d still be in a state of perpetual limbo car-wise but maybe that inconvenience was worth finally unloading me.
For those of you who don’t know, Ali has been borrowing his parent’s extra car since April of 2009 when his lease ended. So that means that for the last 10 months he has been visiting car dealers, doing test drives, daily debating the pros and cons of about 8 different cars, tweeting with random people about their opinions, dragging me to car dealers across the city, making me be friendly to the most annoying and pushy sales people that have walked the earth, and generally exhausting me to the point where I told him I simply could NOT talk about it for one more second.
I used to love cars. (Note the past tense.) I used to love visiting showrooms for fun with my dad and brother and eagerly anticipated the Auto Show every December. I even attended a Nascar racing school with Ali where I slipped into a super unattractive jumpsuit and drove a ridiculously fast car on a track in 110 degree temperatures. For years I have fully appreciated and supported his need for a dual exhaust and completely unnecessary features such as a heated steering wheel. But after a fairly patient 10 months my patient streak finally ran out and even Ali knew I wasn’t kidding around when I dared him to test my ultimatum.
So while he drove off bright and early to either find a car or hire a divorce lawyer, Maya and I headed to my in-laws place and then my mom’s. The day was full of rest, relaxation, tea, and conversation that did not address the predicament of 19″ wheels in chrome or alloy. By 2pm I was a bit surprised to not see or hear from Ali but I poured my self another cup of tea and promptly forgot about it. By 4pm I was back at my in-laws and engaged in a battle with Maya and the TV, still no word from Ali. By 6pm I decided to enjoy my rare night of freedom, called up my brother and headed out to meet him for dinner.
After have dinner at our favorite Fresh Corn Grill, my brother and I headed to the Montage in Beverly Hills for a cup of coffee. My gut instinct told me that coffee was not going to do anything to help the scary nauseous feeling that had suddenly come over me, but I was determined not to waste a good hair day. And enjoy I did…the lobby lounge was gorgeous and packed with people who were having an even better hair day.
We settled in at the only available table, ordered some decaf, and chatted away. You can’t see it in this unsurprisingly terribly dark picture, but there was a piano player and singer.
I listened to Nat King Cole and Etta James covers as my nauseousness took a turn for the wost. Still no Ali but I didn’t really care because I was quickly becoming sick to my stomach. I came home and spent the rest of my “night out” huddled on the couch with my laptop as my only distraction.
It had been a long time since I felt as sick as I did last night, but I guess it was only fitting since I told Ali that I would drop dead from shock if he came home with a car. Ali finally did come home. With a car. And there I was delirious with pain and looking like death warmed over.
A fitting ending to the day, wouldn’t you say?