Where are you, car? *sniffle*

so close!

T-minus 21 days and counting to Fiat

I was given an ETA of 45 business days from when I placed my order for a brand new Fiat 500.  The only option I added to the basic model was the car alarm (which only came in a package with a better sound system and satellite radio, so I win!) and an automatic transmission.  No silly decals, no engine block heater, no “smoker’s option” (whatever that is).  Just 45 days to get an automatic with one add-on.  I’ve heard from the guy at the bank who’s helping with the whole thing that it should arrive “soon.”  The guy at the dealership said a couple weeks ago that “it should be here by the end of the month.”  I called him yesterday and he said there was “a delay.”

Two months is a long time to wait for something you’re really, really looking forward to.  It’s been 30 business days, and I’m chomping at the bit.  It’s so close I can almost feel the stitching on the steering wheel under my fingers.  No one in my family has ever owned a brand new car.  We’ve always bought used, and that makes sense financially.  I’ve had two bad experiences with cars (both American), and I’m tired of inheriting other people’s problems.  I can’t wait!  Raaaaaaagh!


Tiny car syndrome

I know I keep saying this, but it’s settled: I’m buying a Fiat.  Within the month of May, I will own a brand new white Pop model Fiat 500 with brown and cream interior upholstery.  And it will be just adorable.  I went on another test drive yesterday, and I’m officially sold.  It’s way better than a Yaris (sorry Toyota, it was a tight race until I saw the interior- why would you put your dials in the center of the console?!).

silver lining: repair costs would have been low

I’m suffering from some anxiety about buying such a small car, though, and these worries manifested in a dream last night.  In the dream, I bought the Fiat, but was given a small plastic car instead.  The kind children play with.  And I couldn’t tell the difference.  It was bright yellow and made of that solid but soft plastic that kids’ giant toys are made of.  I drove off the lot amid a loud buzzing sound the engine made, and couldn’t tell I wasn’t driving the Fiat I’ve been pining for during the last two months.

Eventually, I got out of my little plastic pedal car, picked it up with one hand, walked back to the dealership and stood there at the counter where I demanded, “This is not a Fiat.  Where is my Fiat?”

Where indeed.