Who's gonna drive you home?

O/G is five weeks older than me. Most of the time we were dating, it was barely noticeable, but there were a few age-restricted activities that always seemed to fall in those five weeks that made life complicated. One of such was renting a car.

As everyone knows, if you rent a car before you're 25, you are tagged with all sorts of extra fees. It's grossly unfair because I was no bit a better driver on my 25th birthday than I was the day before, but it's based on accident data and I understand a business has to make a decision about risk so whatever.

O/G's 25th birthday was on a week day in early April. I planned to fly to Georgia the following weekend to celebrate. The previous time I had visited, I had flown to Jacksonville, rented a car (taking the hit on extra fees), and driven 90 minutes up I-95 to his house (it had been cheaper to do this than fly directly to Savannah and I was visiting for a long weekend so the drive wasn't a big deal). O/G really liked that I had a rental car because it meant he didn't have to put miles on his car and we could go out to the bars and cab home and then retrieve the other car the next morning. He liked it so much that he requested I do it again for his birthday. And by requested, I mean demanded in his whiny-baby voice.

The smart thing to do would have been for him to rent the car in his name, as by the time I arrived in Savannah on Friday afternoon, he would have already been 25 and thus wouldn't have to pay the extra fees. I suggested this as I was planning my travel but he didn't want to do this. His reasoning? It was his birthday so he didn't want to pay AND it was my turn to visit him and therefore my turn to pay for the travel costs.

I offered to write him a check for the amount of the car rental (since the fee itself usually has to be charged to a credit card in the driver's name), but he didn't like that idea because he didn't feel comfortable letting me drive a car that was rented in his name. Plus, in his words "the travel thing is your problem this time babe". Sort of like how I made it his probably to get him to and from the airport when he came to visit DC or how I left him to deal with his problem when his flight home got canceled during a snow storm. But that's probably why our relationship soured: I never made anything his problem and therefore he did not know how to solve his own problems.

In the end, I rented a car and paid the extra fees and spent the weekend driving him around on his errands because he didn't want to put miles on his car. After all, it was his birthday and I was a complete pushover back then.

Ode to Fred's Car

Every girl out there has dated a guy with a bad car at one point. And anyone who reads this blog regularly knows that I've dated some guys with really REALLY bad cars…like Shrek and the Reagan administration era teal station wagon. For the most part, I am willing to overlook things like cars if the guy in question has other good qualities. I mean, it is kind of really hot if a guy drives something fast and European (I'll let you know as soon as I find one) but, a great car isn't the first thing I look for in a guy. And besides, you don't come to LoserEx to read about hot guys with fast cars. You come to read stories like this one.

Fred's car – a little Japanese number - was on its last wheel. The bumper had been knocked almost completely off in a rear-end collision and was held on – I'm not exaggerating - by bungee cords. The sides were dented in and covered in deep dings from the time Fred got his ass handed to him by a one night stand's boyfriend. But that's another story.

At this point I want to make it clear that I understand that things happen, sometimes cars get dents. In fact I've caused a fair share of dents in cars – both mine and other peoples (hopefully not yours ;). But there is a world of difference between the "Hey, it looks like the paint is a little scratched" and "Hey, your fucking door is about to fall off!!" situations. Fred's car fell into the second category.

The aforementioned incidents resulting in the detached bumper and dented sides were both reported to insurance and money was collected from each incident. However, Fred decided that it was better to keep this money for potential mechanical problems rather than use it to fix the extensive cosmetic damage.

I certainly understand wanting to save this money for something more vital to the operation of the vehicle than the appearance of the door. However, when the bumper is dragging in the street and shooting sparks next the gas tank, I think maybe it's ok to address cosmetic issues. But, I digress.

Fred wanted to save money for mechanical problems. Fine. Except for when those mechanical problems inevitably arose, the money was no where to be found.

So, with a complete lack of regard for the condition of his vehicle, Fred managed run his jalopy into the ground until the transmission gave out. This meant I had to chauffeur his ass around for the next six weeks while he tried to come up with the money to get his car fixed. Not the best situation, but the fact that he actually had a driver's license at least gives him a few points over Fruit Fly.

He did eventually get the transmission replaced, but 8 months later, the compressor went out. At this time, it was early spring, so I didn't really notice. But by the time it was 90 degrees and humid that summer, I sure as hell noticed.

I had (wrongly) assumed that Fred, like any normal person would have gotten his compressor fixed when he realized it was broken. But, Fred was not a normal person. I realized in the middle of a road trip on a particularly hot day that he had not bothered to replace the compressor.

Of course, this was also the day that we ended up getting stuck in a traffic jam for 2 hours. At which time, he decided to pass the time by rolling down the windows and blasting Raffi. I should have rallied up all the poor people within an earshot and kicked Fred's ass on the non-dented side of his car. At least then it would have matched.

Fred's reason for not fixing the compressor was that it only affected the air conditioner and the ability for the car to start. He decided air conditioning was not a priority and he was willing to screw around with his car for a good 10 minutes to get it to turn on each time.

So needless to say, at the end of the summer I felt a bit relieved to go back to school and get away from the car and Fred for a little while. At least until he decided to visit me. Fred opted to drive to my school (at $150, a plane ticket was prohibitively expensive). After a short ten hour drive he showed up on the steps of my dorm. I had once again assumed that he had replaced the compressor before taking such a long drive, but I was wrong. And of course, it was when he was at my dorm that his car did not start.

I had to call AAA to come tow his busted-ass car to the local garage. Upon arriving at the garage, Fred announced that he had no money, so I had to pay the $60 labor fee for the inspection.

But after the inspection Fred decided they were going to charge him too much to fix his car, so he demanded to go elsewhere. Great. Except, his car didn't start.

I had to call the tow truck AGAIN and have them tow the damn thing to the parking lot in front of Fruit Fly's house. This was a very awkward conversation. Also, try calling AAA sometime and asking them to tow a car to a residential parking lot. Trust me, it takes a lot of pleading.

Now, after a long fun filled weekend of towing and gas stations I had Fred stuck with me, and he apparently had to be at work in 12 hours. Despite the fact he worked at a fricking electronics store at the time as a sales associate, he refused to call out.

I had exams the next day, there was no way I could drive him. He refused to take a Greyhound bus. He refused to rent a car. So flying his ass out was the only option . The ticket for the flight leaving in 5 hours was $850. Guess whose card that went on?

A month later, Fred drove back down with his dad so they could try to fix the car. They didn't fix it per se, but they got it to start by pushing it down a hill (somehow this took 8 hours). His dad then had to drive the car all the way back home, knowing that if the car stopped, it would not start again.

I hope that poor man didn't have to pee during the long trip home.

They saw him rollin', they hatin'

Shrek drove the ugliest car. Bright teal circa 1990 station wagon. Yuck! To make matters worse, he never cleaned his car. It was filled to the brim with fast food bags and half-eaten food. There were soda spills all over the seats and every surface was sticky, squishy, slimy, or otherwise sickening. The worst part of all was the foul stench that hit me like a brick wall every time I opened the car door. I can’t even begin to describe what it smelled like – it is unlike anything I have ever encountered.

I loathed riding in the nasty-wagon. It was repulsive on the inside, and humiliating on the outside. At a school where everyone drove a nice car, the teal nasty-wagon stuck-out like a sore thumb. I would never want Shrek to drive me and my friends anywhere in the nasty thing (side note: it was his mother’s old car, and she gave it to him because she bought a newer model of the same station wagon in the same color – how tasteful). I would suck it up and call a cab before I would ask him for a ride.

After we broke up, I would start to feel nauseous every time I saw the nasty-wagon. Partly because I remembered how sickeningly filthy it was and partly because the thought of Shrek made me sick to my stomach (really gross psychosomatic problem I had for a bit).

Given my situation, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got word that Shrek was leaving school. I could walk to class and not worry about running into him and having to awkwardly avert my eyes and hope he didn’t try to talk to me. I could eat in the dining hall and not look up to see that he was sitting at the next table. I didn’t avoid bars that I thought he would go to, I didn’t get nervous every time I walked past his frat house.

Three weeks after his departure, I was the happiest I had been in years. To celebrate, I had a me party with some girlfriends at the usual bar. On the way back home, I looked out the window of the cab as we came around the corner of fraternity row. From a few blocks away, I could see the nasty-wagon parked out in front of his frat house under a street light. I started to feel dizzy and short of breath. Then, as we were right in front of it, I noticed that it appeared to have been in a pretty bad accident.

As soon as I got back, I made everyone go back over to look at it some more. Sure enough, the front end of it was smashed. I assume that he could not afford to get it fixed to go home, so he left it at school. Or maybe it was totaled and he just didn’t have time to go through the whole insurance thing (how could he not have time? It’s not like he had a job or class or anything…).

Over the next few weeks, I made a point to walk a little slower when I passed by the nasty-wagon and laugh.

Apparently, others (I later found out, others = his own fraternity brothers, but that is another loser-ex worthy story that I won’t go in to right now) shared my contempt for Shrek.* During the rest of my time in college, I saw the gradual evidence that his car was the target of someone’s on-going vandalism project.

Each window had been smashed out, tires: slashed, headlights: busted, several vulgarities scratched and/or painted over the bright teal body, insides: destroyed. The grand finale was the morning I walked by his car and saw that the hood and the area around the car was black like someone had finally decided to blow it up. Who knew his own frat brothers would go all Carrie Underwood on his ass?

As much as I disapprove of such acts, I have to admit seeing his car in this shape made me feel a little better every time I walked by.

I would imagine that it is no longer there.

* His fraternity brothers couldn’t stand him anymore by the time he left and made this no secret to the rest of campus. The best part about this is the pledge class he wasn’t there to meet (rush was during the time he was leaving) all know him as “Shrek: the asshole.” It makes me almost not hate his fraternity anymore. Almost.

Why I didn't lose my virginity on prom night

There was an article in USA Today this morning about high school proms. Apparently, kids these days get proms with dinners, breakfasts, parades, cruises, comedy shows, etc. It makes me sick. My prom was nothing worth noting. It was at a mid-range hotel in Baltimore, we had no refreshments (not even cokes), and our only party favors were photo albums that cost about 50 cents a pop and a handful of hard candy.

The only thing truly memorable about my senior prom was my horrible date, Ex 2 (Fruit Fly). About a month or so before the event, we butted heads about his tux. He wanted to get something like the Dumb and Dumber get-up. I told him I didn't want to explain to my children 30 years from then that my date was, in fact, not actually retarded. After I had told him exactly what to get, I felt like maybe I was being a little bitchy, so I agreed to let him and the other guys control one aspect of the evening: the limo.

I figured there is no way someone can screw-up ordering a limo. I mean, it involves picking up the phone and giving an address. Boy was I wrong.

Fruit Fly was excited about his task, and wasted no time getting all the other guys in our group involved on it. I didn't really bother to ask questions about it because, I figured a limo is a limo. I was a little concerned when I realized it was getting close to prom and he had not actually made any phone calls. But , I figured I shouldn't nag about it. Even with two and half weeks to spare, I was sure he could find something decent. Finally, he told me that he had booked a limo and that he was really excited about it. I was really excited too, I thought for once he had managed to handle a menial task without disappointing me. It was a little late, but I figured a limo is a limo. It couldn't be too bad.

Then I saw it. I can't even begin to describe the shock and disgust I felt as the "hot-rod limo" came rolling around the corner to pick everyone up. "Hot-rod limo" is a huge overstatement. Had this name actually been an accurate description, I would have found it hilarious. This limo was a busted-ass dirty POS from the early 80s. It was gray with flames painted on the side and the driver was scruffy and drunk looking. His tux was totally wrinkled and he likely had not showered in a month. The interior of the car was dirty and ripped and none of the buttons in it worked. It was stinky inside and I thought I was going to get an STD just from sitting on the seat.

Fruit Fly had even gone up to the rental office and apparently looked at the car two weeks earlier. I couldn't imagine why he thought that this wasn't a POS. He even made a comment at one point that the car was pretty crappy. Well, duh! If you had just managed to do your fricking part and actually look at the stupid car while you were up at the office, this would not have been an issue.

The other girls in the group all glared at me wondering why in the hell I left this up to my boyfriend. I was thoroughly ashamed, but decided to make the most of the situation.

"Well, at least we'll be able to pick-out our limo in the parking lot. Right, guys? Right?"

Still, they were pissed at me.

We hopped in and about 5 minutes down the road, the driver stopped to go to the gas station. Weird. He stood outside and smoked 3 cigarettes and filled the car with gas. His smoke break made us 10 minutes late for our dinner reservations.

At the restaurant, we gave him the time to pick us up, and took his cell phone number so we could call if that changed. When we called him at the pre-arranged time, he said he'd be right there. A whole 15 minutes later, he finally came to pick us up. Loser.

When we arrived at the prom, he didn't feel like waiting in the line of cars to drop us off at the front door (probably a good thing anyway, I didn't exactly want to be seen in this POS) so he drove us around to the garage and we went in the back stairwell. Nice.

And as if the limo weren't enough, Fruit Fly was a turd all night, making me incredibly grouchy for having to deal with him. I don't think I talked to him from the time we had our pictures taken until it was time to leave.

In high school, people always made such a big fuss over prom. They would carry on about how they would remember it for the rest of their lives, so it had to be perfect. I couldn't even tell you what our prom song was, or who took whom as a date or who was on the prom court. The only thing that comes to mind when I think of my senior prom is how much Fruit Fly sucks at life.

I guess I should thank him for making an otherwise forgettable night memorable.

I'm your vehicle baby

It's overly cliched and stereotyped but men love their cars more than they love their women. That's all well and good and I'm perfectly okay with playing a second fiddle to the Mustang (mostly because I probably love that Mustang more than I love my boyfriend--I got to pick the color), since usually it means I get to look positively adorable riding shotgun in such a sweet-ass car.

But what I don't understand is why men can't keep their sweet-ass cars clean.

Mr. Toad is not the fanciest car on the street but he's always relatively clean. He needs to go to the car spa right now but at least when people get in him, they are not overwhelmed by the stench of garbage. If the person in the front seat wants to move the seat back, he or she does not first need to clean out all of the empty water bottles from the space behind the seat. People can sit in the backseat with minimal rearranging (usually it means moving my gym bag to the trunk). I mean, how fucking difficult is it to take the trash out of your car with you when you get out? Chances are good you're going by someplace with a trash can--use it!

Contrary to what these men believe, there's nothing sexy about a sweet car that is completely trashed on the inside.

The worst part is, all of these guys MUST know this because when we first started dating, they were all very diligent about detailing their cars before they came to get me and take me out. But unfortunately it seems with the comfort of sweatpants, morning sex, and Saturday nights on the couch watching UFC (guilty pleasure--what can I say?) comes a messy car. And that sucks.

Driving Mr. Daisy

Okay, in RGB's first post, she complained about an 18-year old who didn't have his driver's license. I dated a 24-year old who had his license, made more money than I do, paid less in expenses than I do and still was too cheap to buy a car. So we took my car everywhere.
He was also too spastic to learn how to drive stick shift (real men drive stick) so I also had to drive us everywhere.
He had no problem, however, choosing destinations on the other side of the friggin' state. I mean, Valentine's Day in Rochester is nice, but why the hell do I have to drive?
You know how much it sucks to be the sober cab? Imagine doing that for an entire year. And then never question my lack of a tolerance to alcohol again.