RIP Green Cheese

I was writing about dead folks in my last post, and unfortunately, this time I'm writing about a dead car.

My husband's Subaru Outback, AKA the Green Cheese (well, at least that's what I called it) gave up the ghost (its transmission) yesterday -- and with more than 100,000 miles on it, it's not worth repairing.

Buying a car has got to be one of the more heinous experiences in life, and I actually have nothing witty or even interesting to relate here about the process thus far. Except that I've shifted 97% of the responsibility for the purchase onto my husband (with the other 3% being me whining about how we can't afford this.)

But I am afraid for my own integrity -- in that there is a very good chance we might be adding something resembling a SUV to our household. No behemoth or anything -- and it's not a mini-van (that would be grounds for divorce, I think.) But the SUV represents everything I despise about the suburbs and its ostentatious excesses.

And so much for my imagined fall fashion wardrobe (in my visions, it was anchored around a cool military jacket) since the new car payment will eat up any disposable income.

So, I'm going to assume the fetal position now...and make a mental list of everything in the basement that I can sell on eBay to raise funds (Anybody interested in an unused food dehydrator?)