The mighty Volvo is dead. Yes, the 2012 S60 Turbo which I adore and worship wouldn't start one day after school. I approached the vehicle after working with eight, middle school knitters for an hour during a post-day program. Knit purl knit purl cast on cast off, I was ready for a break.
Key in ignition, no go.
Foot on pedal to start. No go.
I pray, yet still no miracle. I watch the track team run buy and wonders if this is some sort of penance for me not running, or perhaps not buying a Kia, as my brother suggested. Of course exercise and owning a car are in no way related, but at the moment MausiGal is not thinking clearly.
Damn Volvo. This happened about a month and a half ago as well. Two times in two months. No go.
Re-evaluate. I love my car. Volvo has become so much of my identity that my screen name on various websites across the Internet involves the word Volvo. My students at school can identify me on the street. My dream car is a P1800 - the original Bond mobile.
I sit in the parking lot on this eighty degree autumn day and wonder if I've just become too materialistic with my obsession with the Swede mobiles. Is it a fetish? Can one have a Volvo fetish? Let's face it, anyone who walks up to people with old Volvos and asks them about their mileage is obviously hooked. No matter what the condition of the Volvo - old, new, broken, used, brand new - I am attracted. I'm like a kid on Halloween when going up to the car dealership - no house will be left unvisited for candy, and I want to see each vehicle. I stop at every car, browse the interior, sit inside, imagine myself driving the machine. I am intoxicated by the feel of the steering wheel, opening the sun roof, heck, even imagining placing my venti salted caramel mocha in the cup holder. New or used, each Volvo for me is a gem. Am I materialistic? I think again. No, I reckon. Even has their quirks, and mine just has to be with a car that's foreign.
And a car that is now dead in a middle school parking lot.
The tow truck comes and of course, once the driver sits in it, the engine turns. Miracles never cease. Yet still, the dashboard is lit up like a Christmas tree, lights aglow with everything that could possibly be wrong with a car - CHECK ENGINE - that's a scary one - so off I drive (I know, idiotic) to the dealer for repairs.
One week later I am told the prognosis. Ready for this? Oh, the irony!
Mice.
Mice living under the hood ate through wires in my beloved car. The insurance company even checked out the claim, and found it to be true. The car is kept in a garage, fairly warm, where I have found no evidence of mice, but such is my fate.
So for the past three weeks I have been driving an XC60.
It's a cross-over between an SUV and a wagon. Yummy. The Volvomom/MausiGal is addicted, and wonders what it will be like when she is finally forced to give it back and return to her sporty, little S60. Zip zip zoom.
Yes, I am so lucky to own what I have. I have been blessed with material things, but above all people in my life who are amazing and love me more than the material things could ever account for. I'm one lucky MausiGal. That's another blog post in and of itself.
Now, if only to find that little family of mice in the garage and set them on a relocation program...
