I spent all day Saturday looking at cars. Luckily Brendan volunteered to go with me for moral support, otherwise I might have killed someone. Salespeople are nuts. And I don't know anything about cars or about buying cars, which is hard to hide. I drove five cars and my favorite was the manual Jetta (used). I've wanted a Jetta since I was thirteen. I don't know why. But I'm not Daddy Warbucks over here, so I'd have to get a used one. Also, my friend Erik works for Chrysler and might be able to get me employee pricing. I'm considering the Jeep Patriot. It's not the most logical car for a young single girl who has to parallel park at home, but maybe I could get a weekend job driving the neighbor kids to soccer. I'd have to get one at the base, base price, though, which I'm sure is impossible. Unfortunately I didn't test drive one because no one at the Jeep dealership would help us. Age discrimination, I'm sure. We left in a huff and with a flip of our hair.
Brendan yelled at me because I was being picky about colors. I'm sorry, but I can't drive a blue car. And gold? Gold shouldn't even be an option. What am I—75? And don't even get me started on white. I don't know anything about engines or tires, so just let me have this.
The mom's coming next weekend, so I'll make her help me find a car. She'll love it.
Yesterday was lovely and I finally got back on my bike and found a nice route along the lake, north to Wilmette. There are so many cyclists here. I was passed by at least five, because I'm horribly out of shape, and after I carried my bike back up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, I fell on the couch and watched two hours of Lock Up (you know, the prison show) without moving.
