Christmas comes early for the Cassidys Alysonn Cassidy / Life in Patterson
Driving a Suburban began to make me feel sick. All these little toy cars on the road, each getting like 400 miles to the gallon, and next to them, in the slow lane, is our decades-old aircraft carrier that barely earns double digits.
And then — get a load of this — it became John’s commuter car.
I had the luxury of driving the 30 mpg Passat while I worked in Sacramento. John, however, had relocated to a job in San Francisco and was spending a comical amount of money commuting (numbers similar to our mortgage kind of comical). We knew we had to make a trade.
So one night he says he’s going to head down to the car dealership, just to take a look at what deals they had on “good commuter cars.” I get a call an hour or so later, and he wants to hear my thoughts on what he’s found.
John is not a car guy. He’s Mr. Truck Guy, really. But hell, he’s also driven a minivan, a big mondo Chrysler sedan and an old Mercedes in the last decade — he’s not a car guy. We’d been talking about him finding one of those little things — maybe an Echo? A Sentra? A Prius?
He even fancied the idea of a SmartCar, that strange amusement-park-ride-looking thing. He checked it out online and said that if we had to drive one of those toy cars, then it could be pretty cool to drive one “so ugly.” He was serious.
So, I joined him at the lot, and we checked them all out. We looked at sticker prices and mileages and interiors. We talked about colors and hybrids and blue-book values. We stood side-by-side, inspecting, commenting, nodding.
To be honest, nothing was appealing at all. I was thinking very practically when I argued with myself, “It doesn’t matter what it looks like, Alysonn! It will save us its entire sticker price in gas in the first month alone!”
But I admit, I was a little less than psyched when it came to buying a car this time. I chose to put away my want of a fun, good-looking vehicle in the name of saving money and good old practicality.
That’s when I got that feeling. Sometimes that feeling’s brought on by a song or a smell — and sometimes it’s a look your husband gets at the corners of his mouth, when he’s not quite smiling, more trying not to say something.
So I noted the look and I knew I’d missed something. I turned. And, mind you, I hadn’t missed it, it just never occurred to me. It wouldn’t have in a million years. As I said, John’s not a car guy. And yet, there sat this sexy black Corvette.
He’s got the smirk again when I flip my head back around in disbelief. “What!” I shrieked. “You’re kidding, right?”
And he responds, smirk still present, voice barely above a whisper, “Well yeah, I mean, of course.”
“This guy’s high on crack,” is what I think I said to the salesman as I poked John in the chest. Probably more poke than he expected. “We’re here to buy a commuter car,” I said, sounding remarkably like Ward Cleaver.
The salesman tried to overcome that objection. “The ’Vette gets close to 30 miles a gallon!”
I snickered at him.
“Why couldn’t it be a commuter car?”
I guffawed at him.
He kept on about it being a ’98, and since it was “previously owned,” it was a great value for a classic American sports car. Salespeople…
And with all the fire and passion I could muster in the name of a SmartCar or whatever the heck we’d end up with, I laughed aloud, poked John again and shrugged over toward the toy cars.
“Laugh’s over,” I thought, “now let’s get on with the business of buying something fairly awful but smart.”
I’ll give it to him. He walked beside me. And we continued to peruse. I didn’t even have to look — that smirk was right there all the time. At a certain point, I turned and looked him straight in the eye.
“I know!” he admitted. “We can’t, of course, I know.” And then a bit later, again barely audible, “It is gorgeous though.”
He wouldn’t have suggested or even asked. And that’s when I was party to one of those rare moments you come to in a marriage — and when they come, you gotta snatch ’em right up.
No, I didn’t run him over. I told him he oughtta take it for a test drive.
He was gone for 40 minutes.
He came back with our 8-year-old son in the passenger seat.
It really was me who did it. He honestly wouldn’t have. But it was that look, that not asking, that did it. I loved being able to say we should just do it; that he should just do it; that life is short; that if you’ve gotta commute, why shouldn’t it be fun?
It was like a bunch of fantastic Christmas mornings, but instead of it being for your kids, it’s for your husband. It was awesome, really.
Nah, my husband’s not a car guy. He’s a ’Vette guy.
Alysonn Cassidy is an at-home mom, responsible for three children, one adult male and miscellaneous dogs and cats. She can be e-mailed at
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