Remember that time in 2011 when my husband Chris and I flew to Sweden to buy a car? Fresh off the Volvo factory floor? With our eyes full of excitement and our bellies full of undercooked Swedish meatballs? Here’s Chris just moments after meeting The Silver Fox:
Sigh. It was as flawless as a baby. Well, a baby who’s just been given the once-over with a shammy and a tin of Turtle Wax by a grumpy Swede named Björne. But we sure had some good times in that car, we did. It took us from Texas to Nevada—and back—two times and even kept us safe from these sketchy aliens when we drove through Area 51:
Bloorg and Blaarg were far too busy harassing their crabby mothership for gas station snacks to abduct anyone that day.
More recently, The Silver Fox carried us to Florida—and back—for Thanksgiving and even managed to emerge unscathed from Bourbon Street. (Something I’ve never personally been able to do.) The little SUV was definitely ready for a good winter rest. But then, a week before Christmas, Chris was driving home from Target and a truck ran a red light at 55 miles per hour. And this happened:
Sigh. No longer as flawless as a baby. More like as flawless as a convicted murderer who tries to escape Rikers Island and gets his ass jumped by 20 angry prison guards with expandable batons and brass knuckles. Ain’t no Swedish shammy goin’ fix that shit.
Fortunately, Chris was unhurt in the accident—which is why we’ll continue to buy cushions-you-like-a-pillow-in-a-crash Volvos—but The Silver Fox was like, so totally totaled. I mean, totally. “Where’s it going to go now?” I quietly asked Raoul, the collision center guy, while we were standing in the salvage yard cleaning out the car.
“Well, they sell it at auction, then it’s picked clean for parts. Much like vultures on a deadass rabbit,” he answered as he dug around the front seat. “Ain’t no biggie. Hey, you wanna keep (disgusted pause) this Clay Aiken CD, lady?” (Uh, yes, I did.)
But wait! The Aarons’ vehicular fun wasn’t over! Because last week the Enterprise Rent-A-Car rental we were driving had engine failure on our way back from San Antonio. The good news is that it was a dark night, 40 degrees and we were on an isolated country road when the gas fumes started enveloping us. I know, so lucky! But then, after 50 minutes on hold with Enterprise Roadside Assistance, the call was suddenly disconnected on their end and the four of us were basically just left to the wolves. Or coyotes. Or whatever bloodthirsty mammals troll the Texas back roads. The Allman Brothers?
Finally, after two plus hours of sitting in the dark, with the kids busy playing their iTouches, Chris busy calling for help and me busy staring out into the black woods and wondering why, for the love of God, I’d just watched the entire first season of “American Horror Story,” we were rescued. No, not by those losers at “We’ll Pick You Up!” Enterprise. By my friend Maria in her minivan. Yep, next time you’re stranded, “Maria Will Pick You Up!” (Then make you promise to take her kid to the next Kevin James movie as payback. Maybe I should have taken my chances with Gregg Allman.)
But now it looks like our car troubles are finally over because Chris just flew up to Dallas where he picked up our shiny, new replacement Volvo. Hooray! He said Dallas was just like our Sweden experience, only the car dealer wasn’t named Ulf and he didn’t have socialized health care, red pants or a “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” smugness about him. Anyway, The Silver Fox is dead. Long live…
The Redd Foxx! (And I hope you all know why I added the extra “d” and “x,” you big dummy.) Yeah, I know, it’s slightly bright. Slightly—shiny. Slightly “Good God, look away if you don’t want your retinas permanently damaged, neighborhood children.” I mean, even our 9-year-old son Jack, who frequently dresses himself in all-red outfits and who considers tie-dye to be a primary color, looked at the car and said, “Hmmmm. I was hoping for something a bit more understated.”
But I have to say that I’m completely happy with the color because it’s now obvious to all that we’re in the throes of a mid-life crisis. We no longer have to hide it. No, this car pretty much throws a pound of glitter confetti in your face while screaming, “Attention shoppers! We’re super concerned about automotive safety, but we still want to look hot and sexy when we’re driving to the pharmacy to pick up our goiter medication and Poise pads!!! PAR-TAY!!” And that’s a good thing.
Because I just know Clay Aiken would love it.