Trading Spaces

Ron Nagasawa
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Wednesday - October 29, 2008
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My wife drives a pretty nice 2003 sedan. She loves her car like I love my 1995 Dodge Ram truck. We use her car on the weekends as our family car since it allows our 11-year-old daughter to ride in the back seat to do what girls that age like to do, like text message her friends or listen to her iPod.

And besides, my wife doesn’t like to ride in my truck as you can feel every bump in the road and the cab looks like the Animal House fraternity after a toga party. I don’t feel an obligation to upkeep it since my wife drives and picks up our daughter from school every day.

The other weekend we drove to town in her car and the engine light came on. My wife started to panic that something was wrong with her “baby.” I laughed and said that the engine light has been on in my truck for years and not to worry about it.

When we got in her car to return home, it wouldn’t turn over and we were stalled. I did the obligatory lifting the hood and jiggling the battery wires, but it still wouldn’t start. We were parked in the hot sun, so I told my wife and daughter to seek out some shade and get something to eat.

I kept trying to start the car, and after some intense prayer where I promised to attend church every Sunday and give up all my vices, the engine turned over. I back-peddled, telling my higher being to never mind what I just said because I got the car started.

When we got home I told my wife that she would have to drive my truck and I would drive her car until I could get it in for servicing. She reluctantly complied. It would be a few days before I could get an appointment, and for some reason, her car ran fine.

It was great driving the nice car for once but I was sensing irritation on the part of my wife since she was stuck driving my behemoth. When I finally took her car in, they gave me a rental car - a brand new Cadillac CTS sports sedan. I was the only authorized driver, so she was still stuck with my truck.

After I enjoyed a pleasant two weeks of luxury driving, we got her car back. When I jumped in my truck, I nearly didn’t recognize it. The cab was completely clean and hanging from the rear-view mirror was one of those doily potpourri balls. My truck was totally feminized and I asked her about it.

She said she bought the deodorizer from all the money she made from recycling the empty cans and plastic bottles in my truck.

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