I miss my poor car.

My big, black, beautiful Blazer.

Yesterday morning, I took it to the body shop to have the front fender fixed from the accident I had last December. You know, the one where I slipped on the ice going five miles per hour, did a 180 and hit a car in a ditch? Yeah, that one. Call me king of the procrastinators.

Actually, the only reason I took it in, is that the car needs to go through DMV inspection sometime in May, and I thought it best not to take it through with the fender scraping against the front right tire every time I make a left turn.

So after I dropped it off, I finagled a ride to Enterprise to rent a car. Now, pay attention ‘cause here’s where I get screwed: My insurance company authorizes $20 per day for a rental car, and the cheapest, smallest, most-clown car-ish vehicle Enterprise offers is $25 per day. And by golly, the only car they have available is a Chevy Colorado. And this small pickup is only $30 per day! What a bargain.

Enterprise dude dressed in an off-the-rack suit and non-matching tie: “What do you drive, sir?”
Me, in jeans and a polo: “A Blazer.”
“Ah, would you like another SUV?”
“No. I’d like the cheapest car you have.”
“Well, you are rather tall.”
“I’m 6’4”.”
“Uh huh. Then, would you care for a standard size car?”
“No. Something less expensive.”
“Ok. How about a pickup?”
“Is the pickup less expensive?”
“Actually, no. But it’s all we have at the moment.”
“Then the pickup, it is! And as soon as you get a smaller car in, call me and I’ll trade.”

A side note if you will. Two things Jews don’t really do are hunt, or drive pickups.

So I’m driving home yesterday afternoon in my pickup, which incidentally has only 1000 miles on it in it’s beautiful new-ness, and I’m listening to the radio, the accelerator floored, flying through traffic when “Coo-coo-chee” by “Ric-A-Che” comes on.

Now, I’ve heard this song a grand total of three times, and by now, I know every word. It’s one of those things. This annoyingly addictive song will become this year’s “Thong Song” mark my words.

Anyway, I’m singing along:

“Coo-coo-chee, coo-coo-chee, coo-coo-chee!

I love being a woman!”

It’s at this precise moment that I stop, look around, and take stock of the situation. Here I am, on I-95, traveling 90 miles per hour in a rented pickup, singing, “I love being a woman.”

I immediately threw in a Megadeth CD to try to re-masculate myself. ‘Cause I’m a man, baby. (Editor’s note: After careful consideration, the author did indeed intend to write “man, baby” and not “man-baby”.

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