Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about getting the New Beetle all day. I love it. It’s such a cute car. Of course I wouldn’t do something stupid like run out and buy one tonight. You only make that mistake a few times in your life. But I’ve been wondering just how funky-cool-whack-crazy I’ll look driving down the streets of Toronto showing off my silver Beetle – that comes fully loaded for $24,000 including a 6 CD player in the trunk and moon-roof for added sunburns while stuck in traffic.
I’m only one person and I don’t plan on having kids anytime soon, so a four-year lease on this baby wouldn’t be a bad idea. Plus the sheer comic value of a tall red-head girl driving what many people believe is a small “clown” car is priceless. Now if I can only find a way to get 14 other Zoeys to jump out of the Beetle one by one while traditional circus music plays in the background.
Holy crap. I just noticed. I’ve become one of those people who constantly blabs about either 1) her kids 2) her pet 3) her boyfriend 4) her car. Arrrrrgggh. I am becoming that which I hate. Oh well. The Beetle is nice. I may go see it again tomorrow after work. I’ll make sure to park the Mustang around the corner from the dealership. I don’t want Sales Dude to think I’m offering any trade-ins. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll treat the Mustang the way men treat their favorite pair of underwear. I’ll use it until there’s nothing left but tires and a steering wheel before I get rid of it.
What? You don’t get that comparison?
Oh man, I can’t believe I have to explain that one.
Okay. There’s this saying that men won’t buy new underwear for themselves unless someone either buys it for them or the old pair finally falls apart for whatever reason.
I know. I just compared my beloved car to men’s underwear. I suck.