My hands are frozen and numb as I try to unscrew the hose from the nozzle on a brisk 10 degree winter day here in the great northeast. I’m from Houston where I was genetically predisposed for thin blood and mall air-conditioning. I will never be a creature of the cold. The hose’s icy contents weigh a ton. How come frozen water weigh’s so much more than unfrozen water. If I were a mountain man, with a huge beard, I would know the answer. I tried to grow a beard once and it came in all patchy, like I had ringworm. Probably another red neck evolutionary advantage not suited for the unforgiving tundra of the eastern Long Island. The locals in these parts call anything above 15 degrees, “Indian summer” and don’t rush to the sporting goods store for lots of Gortex. I wonder to myself what people did when Canadian Goose still stood for a hearty roast dinner and not fine winter apparel. For me it’s torture. I’m mean give up the launch codes kind of cold.
I can’t budge the damn nozzle. I can’t even spell nozzle… seriously… I had to google it. I finally go into the garage and get some vice grips and pry the damn thing off the faucet. I coil it up, drag it into the house and plunge it into a bath of hot water. Why I’m I doing this this? Because I’m in love with an inanimate object. An object that has reached unhealthy obsessive status in my life. Some people might refer to my mechanical mistress as “basic transportation” but in more refined circles she’s better known as the 2013 Jeep Wrangler Unlimited Moab Addition. All the ice and snow and subsequent salting of the roads by those abusive highway department ruffians, has left my little filly wearing a thin film of white corrosive sodium. The thought of me being responsible for any rust infestation is driving me to action and near insanity.
This is not the first time I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to accommodate this infatuation. I’ve scoured Jeep user forums in search of aftermarket tires and roof racks that would perfectly accentuate her top and bottom in the right proportion. I’ve done numerous private photo sessions on the beach at sunset. I’ve harshly disciplined the kids for putting horrible things in her seams. I’ve even shelled out for a top of the line air compressor that plugs directly into her on-board socket. This, to spare her the embarrassment of being seen with deflated sidewalls after our exhilarating beach romps. I’ve never felt this way about a vehicle before, not even my canary yellow ’68 Galaxy 500 convertible.
With the hose thawed I can now do a thorough spray down and remove the forces that would conspire to pre-maturely age her youthful finish. After this baptismal bath, I tuck her safe and dry into the garage. I then walk down the driveway and dig her wicked leased step-sister out of the snow drift I rammed her into at the start of the weekend. After a curt brushing off of some month-old muffin crumbs from the kiddie seats, we all pile in and head back to the city. As my thoughts wander from the mind numbing conformity of Long Island Expressway HOV lane, I can only wonder what she’s doing right now.
I can explain the car. I have one like yours, black and all. Big monster tires. The neighbors call it the “New Trier” car which means it is the car of choice for the high school kids on the North Shore (think Ferris Bueller). Everyone at Texas had the BMW convertibles, and of course I bought on one those too. Enough said.
Sounds like you need to rub one out!