cat sank trio

Diva Gets a New Ride

Hello CatHeads — Crystal here — good old, melodica-blowing, whistle-tweeting, living-in-harmony, Crystal. Summer’s here, and aside from the exciting, queen-like existence that makes up my daily life (you know, demanding the most amplification in an acoustic trio of four, sleeping until 9:30 AM, watering my bonsai tree), the time has been right for dancing in the streets.

Since the Cat Sank got a PA system, Terry started referring to me as “The Diva.” I suppose he justifies the title by referencing my steady need for cranberry-lime vodkas, an ice water, and glossy lip balm — or my lack of ability to lift heavy things, such as his red guitar cord, capo, or Mike’s drum towels — or my sudden interest in the “creepy guy in front” when the band starts to load equipment. Either way, everyone knows it’s always only been a nickname — relatively harmless and completely meaningless. Divas don’t chew their nails like me; they break them putting a tiera onto their hairsprayed heads and then cry when they find out their nail-chicky is on vacation.

I, on the other hand, pride myself on my innate adaptability. I can be one of the boys, one of the girls, or something else (weird story — don’t ask). My needs are easily met, and I don’t expect anyone to cater to me (keep a straight face, Terry) just because I was born a girl. This has always been true, minus one detail — I have, traditionally, needed rides almost everywhere I wanted to go. Todd (the husband) and I have always had one car. Since he’s had to drive all over for his job, he finds himself with the car most of the time. I, consequently, find myself without one. This pickle has resulted in me, over the years, coming to actually believe that my friends enjoyed driving me places. They relished in my passenger-ness, making sure to show up on time and giving me permission to “throw it in the back” if something was in the way of my precious behind.

Though I hated to disappoint these adoring fans, my lack of a car recently started to inhibit my ability to please the masses and be everywhere at once. In short, my very independence was near extinction, not that I’m dramatic. I had to join the commonfolk and start driving my own sweet self around.

So Todd is driving me around Fargo, driving in and out of every car lot this fine metropolis has to offer, and nothing is right. Living high-on-the-hog as we do, I had a flexible budget of between $150-153 dollars a month to work with. The options were limitless — a 1997 Buick Century with only 103K, a taupe F-150 with an airbrushed aluminum topper, Ford’s finest 1998 Taurus with 5% of its original breakpads still intact, etc., etc., etc. None of these could reasonably tow the likes of my beauty around. Finally, on the last pass through a certain car lot (that’s right — I’m not naming names), there sat the most silvery of coaches — a 2002 Mazda Protege5 automatic (manual should be a swear word) with 63K and exactly within my budget. “Stop the car!” I commanded my beloved. So he did.

At once, both one of the most exhilerating and one of the most offensive experiences in my short life began. Todd stayed at the helm of our current ride, keeping princess Ramona the Labradoodle cool with the AC on high, while I ventured out to check out the Protege. Not a salesman in sight. I go into the dealership and request some keys so I can take my soon-to-be-new car for a test drive. Ryan helps me — he’s new, I can tell by the awkward way he tries to start conversations about WeFest. The car drives like a dream, zooming around corners and stopping safely at stoplights. I tell Ryan that I want to talk “numbers” — I’m not entirely new to this process NOR the lingo — and we go inside, just me and Ryan. Half-way through the process, Ryan has to go check the numbers with the numbers guy (Todd nicknamed him “Jackpot”). I go outside to talk to Todd, and we decide he can leave the car running while he comes inside to keep me company and find me a glass of water. Ryan comes back, meets Todd, and from that moment on, doesn’t really make eye-contact with me at all. When a new price is presented, Ryan writes it up and shoves the paper toward Todd with a pen to sign. Todd, of course, slides the paper toward me and shoots Ryan the “don’t-you-know-who-she-is” look I love him for. I sign the paper, push it toward Ryan with the “you-get-one-more-chance-with-me” kind of look everyone loves me for.

The price is agreed upon and we’re now signing contracts and financial papers. Jackpot puts the papers in front of us and says, “Huh. Would you look at that! I put Todd’s name first on everything. I wonder why I did that.” I wanted to retort, “I know! I know! It’s because you have a —- and I don’t!” But, I didn’t. Jackpot then says, “I’ll need the $1100 down we agreed upon now,” to Todd. Todd says, “Crystal, you should write out the check.” Jackpot asks, “Really, why?” — like it’s a cute thing to do for daddy’s little girl who’s watching closely the world around her, trying to figure out how she fits into it all. And I answer with a pity-ing smile, “It’s because I have all the money.” Jackpot: “Oh, in that account?” Diva: “No! In ALL the accounts!”

We shift gears then. Jackpot gets up to retrieve the title for the car, fresh off the printer. “The actual title will of course read, ‘Todd OR Crystal’, because that’s the way they all are, or, I mean, because that’s the way it SHOULD BE!”

Diva gets a point for the ladies, two sets of keys, and her independence. Mama’s got a brand new bag! And, Ryan was even smart enough to put a half-tank of gas in the Protege5. Make that two points, ladies.

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