Cruisin'

A couple months ago I edged a little closer to ranch life by selling my convertible and buying a little SUV. Truth be told, the convertible was too much like the friend's spouse that you don't click with at all but are forced to appreciate because he really isn't a bad guy. The car looked nice and ran well. It couldn't help the fact that I don't like the sun on my face and thus have no business owning a car that is meant to be driven with its top down. With a bloom-where-you're-planted sort of optimism, I had bought the car immediately after moving out here from the east coast, mistakenly thinking that if I fully embraced the California lifestyle, surely it would grow on me.

I soon learned that a convertible with its top up is pretty much a death trap. The bonnet precludes any kind of rear visibility. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and hoped for the best every time I had to change lanes. For some reason the drivers I cut off or nearly clipped were not always appeased by my mea culpa shoulder shrug and the "I'm sorry" politely mouthed into the rearview mirror.

Any remnant of the fantasy of cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset, top down, hair blowing in the wind, fully evaporated after a slight debacle in Denver over Christmas this past winter. The Wrangler and I weren't in the convertible; we were in his zippy little car that we had driven from California to Denver so that we could bring the dog along for the holidays. Did I mention that said zippy little car was nicely equipped with...summer tires? Good one, Wrangler. Denver got a 1/2 inch of snow, and the car refused to budge. "I think the car is broken," the Wrangler said, with faint traces of panic, as he pressed on the gas and his good for nothing baby didn't move. I started sniffling as I watched the parade of all-wheel-drive Subarus dodging our stalled vehicle. I practically could hear the crunch of a giant SUV slamming into us.

Eventually a slightly exasperated state trooper arrived on the scene to assist the two idiots with the California license plates navigate the 1/2 inch of snow. He stood behind the car as the Wrangler pressed on the gas.

Approaching the driver's side window, the trooper announced, "You've got too much torque."

"Yes I do, sir," the Wrangler promptly replied, doing nothing to conceal a smug grin.

"Yeah, these cars are built for speed but not icy conditions," the trooper said, giving the hood scoop an admiring glance.

I observed the trooper settling into a comfortable lean against the car, and I knew the Wrangler was about launch into a proud and detailed discussion of his engine specs. What is it with guys? I cut him off at the pass. "This is not the time!!" I shouted. We were, after all, in the middle lane and vehicles were whizzing past us on both sides at frightening speeds. The trooper snapped out of his reverie and helped us gain some traction. We made it back to the house, although not without a few close calls with stop signs and the like. Upon reaching our destination, I had decided that the time was nigh to buy at least one ranch-worthy vehicle. Glancing at the Wrangler, who was lovingly scraping snow off his zippy little car, I knew that it was the convertible that had to go.

I'm not sad. I love my new all-wheel-drive vehicle. Today, it smells a little like horses and dogs, which is pleasingly ranch-like. I wanted to put a cowgirl decal on the back, but the Wrangler got pouty. Turns out, he likes driving the little SUV a lot, but he can't drive it with a cowgirl decal. Perhaps he will ditch his zippy little car for something a bit more ranch-worthy.

I'm not holding my breath, though.