Goodbye, Gremlin, Goodbye

I'M FREE - yet ironically now confined to my home - because I sold by car, the sour lemon that I once loved, the Gremlin. In a last supper kind of way, I drove it to the car wash up the street and paid $6 to get her looking shiny before the trade and what a feeling! The last $6 I will ever spend on that thing.

On a side note - while I was cleaning out my car, I found some kind of congealed glob of goo in the glove compartment. Apparently a Wendy's honey mustard packet had exploded in the suffocating inferno that was the inside of that car on any given summer afternoon.  Although it smelled like honey mustard, it had by some miracle of science formed into a solid robber-like ball, like silly putty. I peeled it away and threw it out. PHEW - that could have been gross...

I "undressed" the Gremlin - took down my four-leaf clover necklace hanging around the neck of the rear-view mirror, took inside the spark plugs I had gotten so used to using on the side of random roads throughout the city, ejected the one CD I listened to from the single speaker working in the back of the car.

She fetched $2,600. I told the buyer everything about her and you know what she said to me?

"Oh, I knew it was going to need some work. My boyfriend's a mechanic so I'm not worried about it. I just like the way it looks."

So my car hit the jackpot. It has died and gone to lemon-car makeover heaven. In a few months time, the Gremlin will be the equivalent of some botoxed cougar making a comeback - good for the Gremlin.

I, on the other hand, have bigger fish to fry and better cars to drive.

I'll keep you posted on how I manage to find that great car...without a car...wish me luck!

Gremlin Grievances

For about a week, I liked the car I purchased. I actually gave it a name - like a kid does with a goldfish. I named it "Gremlin," and just like a goldfish, it died soon after.

The Gremlin is my first car - a 1999 Dodge Intrepid - and it was a "steal" - or so I thought.

Apparently, a 2.7 liter engine is as good as dog poop - that and its capacity to retain oil. Blithely unaware I was cruising around in a virtual time bomb, I felt confident in my green low-rider for all of three minutes - the time it took for me to wave goodbye to the dealer, Tim of Tim's Auto, and turn on the radio to realize the speakers were out and the passenger window wasn't rolling down.

I swallowed the anxiety-ridden consumer's cries within me, screaming, "You were had!! Take it back now before you're desperate, stranded and crying on the side of the road somewhere!" I got used to ignoring these stomach-churning thoughts until one day my car did leave me desperate, stranded and crying on the side of the road...in the rain. And yet somehow, through the down poor, my engine continued to chug heavy smoke from under the hood. Two hours later, I arrived home, thanked the Russian gas station attendant who agreed to drive me and called up Tim to plead my case.

But instead of the premeditated speech of wrath I had prepared to deliver to him from a safe distance over the phone, I instead spoke woefully about my inabilities to keep a car on life support. He agreed to fix it for a discount and only charged me $500 - yay! The anxious consumer within me nearly suffered cardiac arrest that day.

Six months later, my car was like the child of an estranged couple, spending weekdays with me and weekends in the garage of Tim's. At this point, I didn't hate Tim, I hated my luck.

And then I decided to do something about it. I poured good money into my car, fixed it up as best I could, learned from Tim the few maintenance procedures it might need in time - and made the decision to sell my car on Craigslist. I've been honest about its mileage - it's no spring chicken, it's new parts and known problems - and I priced it low enough to interest buyers and high enough to help me purchase a new car. I've had several interested individuals so I'll keep you posted about the Gremlin's status. But if all goes accordingly, in about a weeks time I should be singing - Goodbye, Gremlin, Goodbye - free to do the whole rigamarole again.

The Flea

Don't let the fries fool you - this post is about a burger.

So let me first tell you that there was never any one reason for me to define myself as a carnivore - until I ate a flea burger. 

Westport Flea Market is dingy, dark and it doesn't accept debit cards - BUT no one with working tastebuds cares, because it is home of the original Flea Market burger, a succulent, massive beef pattie served on a soft and toasty sesame seed bun. Add cheese, mayo, ketcup, perfectly ripened tomatos, pickles, onions and lettuce...and bacon, and you've got yourself the bible of true carnivorians.

Before I tasted the flea, there was a time when I actually could understand why someone would chose to be a vegetarian - I chalked it up to either having a bleeding heart or a heart condition. But as of late, I'm critical. Like Amish teens who get their year of freedom before deciding to continue with the lifestyle, I believe all vegetarians should taste a flea burger, at least one bite before swearing off all animals.

And for the taste of it, I wouldn't even care if it were made of actual fleas, although I'd prefer not to know it. To describe its taste is to describe a craving - you just want it and once you have it, your mouth can't seem to part with it.

I'm a relatively small girl, I eat PB&Js, quesadillas, frozen pizzas and grilled cheeses - I'm pretty soft-core when it comes to serious protein. And yet I crave it like a cat smelling catnip or a pregnant woman inside the local Baskin Robbins, it is all I can think about until it's mine.

So you might say it wasn't a selfless Father's Day gift then, when I treated him to burgers and beer on Saturday night. The holiday was just an excuse to go really, and what better way to honor the best man in my life then with this grilled perfection.

So we got to talking - what was it about the flea burger that sent me reeling - it was just ground beef, afterall.

"It's the grill Coco," he told me while holding the thing with two elbows squared on the table. "Grills have a mind of their own."

He went on to tell me how Kansas City's most famous steak establishment, Hereford House, failed to open a second location out south - "because they just couldn't replicate the flavor, nothing worked and the people weren't having it."

I still can't believe that for a whole year some local loonies wanted to close the Flea Market and open a Hooters. Oh sure - and while they're at it, why don't they build a McDonald's in place of Oklahoma Joe's - because that would be a vast improvement.

Oh but truly, I'm so full. I'm writing this now with my feet up on my coffee table and my laptop on my "contented" stomach, my typing is gradually slowing to a crawl and my eyes are drooping a bit - and I can still taste it - the burger that gave me wings and made me slightly vegetarian intolerant - the flea.