Shit My Car Stereo Says

People who know me know I have a very special relationship.

With my car.

I fucking love my car.

My car crush probably began because it was so implausible — how I could negotiate an amazing deal for a car this impossibly hot (well, for a family sedan…) ON MY OWN was practically unfathomable. It was like landing a date with a full-fledged Hollywood A-list actor.

Yeah, so I might be exaggerating. But anyone who has traversed the scary car dealer landscape on their own post-brick journey knows the trepidation — and subsequent relief — inspired by this encounter.

So when I first brought my car home, it was like the day my newborn was released from the hospital nursery.

And I started to really get to know my car.

Or at least, it started wanting to get to know me.

Because my car? It totally talks to me. Through its car stereo.

Yeah, I know, lots of you have stereos that display the names of songs. This is no exception. What is bizarre in my car’s case is how all of these “song names” on display — perfectly match up with stuff going on in my life.

Seriously — and I do not lie — one of the very first songs my car stereo “played” was this:

Um. Hello?

Alarming, right — and almost Johnny Cash-esque, if you ask me. Suddenly, I pictured my car as a debonair, smooth-talking cowboy. But then within a few days:

Sheesh. Demanding much? Now my car stereo wanted its own identity. However, I think it was annoyed at my indecision (or incorrect gender assignment, considering I was leaning toward the creative “Johnny” as in “Cash”). Because that same day…she chose:

And then the messages from “Martha” became stranger — dare I say, bolder — as I soon began to discover her personality.

The reason why, you ask:

Great. My car stereo is a tweeker. But I refused, resulting in:

Um, last I checked, Martha: I own you. Which was affirmed the following day with this:

Now that’s better (and I’m digging your attempt to apply modern text language, BTW. LOL. TTYL.).

But the bizarre thing is, as my relationship with Martha progressed, she started totally mirroring my personality. First came this:

I don’t think I deserved that. Notice how it’s even glowing — almost red like the devil? And it continued…

Clearly, this car has the right owner. It might be just a little sassy.

Then we entered the horny stage:

Subtle…

…knobs? Slot? Buttons?

Nice.

Wait? What? Premature ejection (of fuel)?

GROSS! Thanks for sparing me the money shot. (So would car jizz consist of wiper fluid? Just curious…)

Then:

Typical chick. Always wants to cuddle afterwards…

There was also the period of time in which Martha’s messages channeled with laser precision the actual events in my life. When I was first served with papers indicating that my ex was taking me to court to stop my blog and change visitation, there was this:

Then the day of mediation with Mediator Man, I returned to my car, and cross my heart hope to die this was on my display:

That was an understatement. Next up was my court date with the ex and this ominous commiseration from good Martha:

Yeah, so true. Now here’s Martha editorializing the day I quit my job to become a full-time freelance writer and editor:

(Funny, Martha. Hysterical. Don’t we all.)

Then this:

…followed in the next few days by these two editing “challenges,” clearly a result of the order issued above:

(Nice try…)

And this:

(Closer. But still no cigar.)

And in the final most bizarre tracking of current events, I had just bought this stupid glitter crap for my daughter’s nails — and that shit went everywhere. So as a result of our failed glitter nail experience, I posted on Facebook about how, given the copious amounts of glitter on me, I should change my name to Bambi. Or Coco. Or Candi. Or Pandora (no offense to readers named Bambi, Coco, Candi or Pandora, of course…).

I also commented that there was glitter in places — that glitter just don’t belong (wink wink, nudge nudge).

And the VERY next day:

You can’t make that shit up.

So as a final note, we all know how I joke all the time about The Universe and my lack of belief in it. But check out this latest (one could even say, Christmas-inspired) capture — even note the glorious, radiant beams of heavenly light as it descends from on high upon the display:

(Can’t you just hear the choir of angels singing?)

I guess maybe I shouldn’t be telling The Universe to fuck off so much — especially around Martha.

So, dear readers:

  1. Thoughts on Christine Martha?
  2. Do you have a “special relationship” with anything that communicates like this to you?
  3. Am I going crazy — yet again?
  4. Can you think of any song titles that I should be prepared for Martha to pull in the coming weeks/months? Better to be prepared than not (I’m still reeling from “Say Hello to Goo.” *shudder*)

…oh yeah, and speaking of The Universe: You know how I “put it out there” that I was tackling 12 posts in 12(ish) days? Well guess what came my way yesterday? A brand spankin’ new client with a bat-shit crazy MONDAY deadline. So: How about 12 posts — before 2012. Deal?

There’s a nice symmetry to the 12s, after all: “12 Before 12”; “The Dirty Dozen”; “Mikalee’s 12-Step Guide to Fucking Up 12 Posts in 12(ish) Days.”

(Step 1: Admit you have a problem…Hi everyone, my name is Mikalee, and read the fucking paragraph above. I have a problem.)

😉