The trouble with cars...

...is that Tierney is dumb.

When people start talking about cars, I space out. I can't help it. Especially lately, when we've recently spent so much time hunting for a couple of new vehicles for our family. This topic of conversation has never interested me even remotely, and now I'm so tired of it, I take its recurring advent as a personal invitation to LaLaLand (one of my favorite places). Not that I mind - I'm just saying, if you're ever talking to me and suddenly notice that my eyes have glazed over and there's a little bit of drool at the corner of my mouth ... you might consider checking the content of your conversation for anything to do with motorized vehicles.

Still, our recent adventures in the world of Car Buying have actually given us occasion to witness some delightfully humbling provisions from God. Even I can see that.

Our previous vehicle situation was ... difficult. We had four licensed drivers and three working vehicles (well, kind of working). Our minivan's doors wouldn't open. My dad's car smelled like exhaust inside. My car was made mostly of plastic, and floated on top of snow like a rubber duck in Jell-O salad. (That means I got stuck a lot last winter, in case it's unclear.) (Growl.)

So my dad and my brother, being the heroes they are, took it upon themselves to solve this rather vexing problem. They scoured the internet for reliable information; they talked about pros and cons; they constructed game plans; they unearthed further research, and revised the game plans; they scoured the internet again for used car ads; they emailed back and forth, talked and talked, researched and researched.

Mom pitched in and did her (good-sized) bit as Chief Telephone Operator and Asker of Many Questions.

The rest of us functioned primarily as dead weight. Um, well ... kind of. Partly. Mostly? Sorry, guys.

But God blessed their dogged efforts, and they found what we were looking for.

A silver 2002 Hyundai Santa Fe for the new family vehicle - complete with sunroof, CD/mp3 player, heated leather seats, a thermometer stuck on celcius, and a little digital screen thingy on the ceiling that says today's date on it (we're not sure yet why this is useful, or why it typically rolls over to the next date in the middle of the afternoon - but it's nifty, so we like it).

And a shiny, sleek, and generally shnazzy-looking black 2004 Saturn Vue for me. It's not as spiffy on the inside as the Santa Fe, but it's plenty good for a town this size, and I feel as much affection toward it as I ever have felt toward a car. SUV. Whatever. Plus, it's got a manual transmission - so, as of today, I have no idea how to drive it.

Or, maybe, some idea ... but definitely not enough to do so safely.

(And yes, I know, if you're a guy, I'm sure those are the stupidest car descriptions you've ever read. I'm a girl, ok? Cut me some slack.)

For now, we keep the van and Dad's car, and Cami inherits (read: buys) mine.

So, back to the Vue - I can't drive it, right? So it's sitting in the garage at home when I have to leave for work this afternoon, and all the other vehicles we own are in use - all except our dumb old minivan. I flatter myself that I could probably remember enough of my one experience driving a stick to survive a ten-mile commute.

...But I don't try it. I drive the van.

Well, unbeknownst to me, the fuel gauge in the van has recently given up the ghost, and now considers itself to be in a perpetual state of Emptiness. Ungrateful wretch. But I call Dad to see if I can make it to work without stopping to fill up, since I don't have time anyway - and he explains all. Better put in a couple gallons before you head home, though, he says. Just in case.

Four hours later, do you think my mind is still dwelling on the defective gas gauge? Yeah, you guessed it. I forget to stop for gas.

Yeah, you guessed it. Halfway home, I run out.

Oh, Tierney, I say to myself. Oh, Tierney, Tierney, Tierney, you are so dumb. You amaze me with your dumbness. You have a head - why don't you use it?

Thankfully ... the van conks out near enough to a gravel road that I can pull over there, instead of right on the shoulder.

Thankfully ... of all the things that are broken in the van, the flashers aren't one of them.

Thankfully ... an older couple pulls over and asks if I need help (people never do that anymore! shame on us, cell phone happy generation), and warn me that my battery might perish if I leave my flashers on too long.

Thankfully ... my dad is pretty much the kindest, most forgiving person in the whole entire universe.

He comes right away when I sheepishly call and confess my transgressions. He comes with fuel, and a smile, and all kinds of cheerfulness and understanding. He says it's not a big deal, and he probably would have done the same thing. (Yeah right, Dad.) He says to follow him to the nearest gas station, and he'll fill the van up for me.

My dad is a hero. Suitors of the world, beware: he wears big shoes.

So, yeah. The problem with cars is that I'm sometimes the one driving them.

While we were waiting for the van to fill up tonight, though, Dad did show me how to check the oil - that's something, right?