I listed the Camry online on Thursday, and Friday afternoon I stood outside the Kato courthouse and watched a seventeen-year-old boy with shaggy hair turn over the engine and drive my car back up to the Cities.
I had been so daunted by the prospect of selling my car - negotiating the price, fearing hard-core hagglers, trying to downplay the dings and scratches that had accumulated from four years' worth of on-street parking, signing over the title - and yet, within twenty-four hours, it sold. The entire process was so easy that I went to work stunned that it had actually happened. I kept checking my phone, sure that there would be an angry message regarding the "3" button superglued to the stereo, or the front right speaker that blew out the night that we drove home from a Bloc at the Tav and Haves cranked up the Clash's "Magnificent Seven" until something broke. But instead the car is gone.
I know that my unsettledness is due in part to the fact that in New York State, the whole process probably would have required eighteen different forms and six different lines and fifty different fees to be paid, and I'm still not used to the ease of which things transpire out here. It feels funny to have just sold it like that. There's something about it - the size? the fact that it's a vehicle? - that makes it feel too easy to have sold it myself. Rupiper, who just sold her car, keeps reassuring me that it's okay. We'll be standing at the pop machine and I'll say, "BUT ISN'T IT JUST WEIRD? I MEAN, YOU JUST SIGN OVER THE TITLE AND SOMEONE ELSE DRIVES OFF IN YOUR CAR?" and the raspberry iced tea overflows in the glass I'm refilling. Because, you know. I am so good at mentally processing changes without talking them out with any of seven people nearby.
I've spent the morning sifting through apartment listings on craigslist and emailing people to set up appointments. Clicking on links and seeing photos of attic apartments with blue-gray walls and arched doorways is finally getting me excited about moving. There are so many apartments that accept dogs AND are near cute stores AND have hardwood floors. I keep forgetting that we might live someplace next year that is affordable and cute and nearby a grocery store that sells, oh, kumquats and chutney and marinated tofu. I'm sure I'll wander the streets and stores doing a mean imitation of someone who was just released from a small Eastern European country. You mean I can choose between this can bean and THIS can bean? I love Wisconsin! Be warned. If you run into me during August and September, I might be kicking it old country. What what!
The Internet sells your car, finds you an apartment in a city you've never visited, and shows you photos someone else took, including peeled potatoes and a display of Ukrainian condoms. I... I love you, Internet.
I had been so daunted by the prospect of selling my car - negotiating the price, fearing hard-core hagglers, trying to downplay the dings and scratches that had accumulated from four years' worth of on-street parking, signing over the title - and yet, within twenty-four hours, it sold. The entire process was so easy that I went to work stunned that it had actually happened. I kept checking my phone, sure that there would be an angry message regarding the "3" button superglued to the stereo, or the front right speaker that blew out the night that we drove home from a Bloc at the Tav and Haves cranked up the Clash's "Magnificent Seven" until something broke. But instead the car is gone.
I know that my unsettledness is due in part to the fact that in New York State, the whole process probably would have required eighteen different forms and six different lines and fifty different fees to be paid, and I'm still not used to the ease of which things transpire out here. It feels funny to have just sold it like that. There's something about it - the size? the fact that it's a vehicle? - that makes it feel too easy to have sold it myself. Rupiper, who just sold her car, keeps reassuring me that it's okay. We'll be standing at the pop machine and I'll say, "BUT ISN'T IT JUST WEIRD? I MEAN, YOU JUST SIGN OVER THE TITLE AND SOMEONE ELSE DRIVES OFF IN YOUR CAR?" and the raspberry iced tea overflows in the glass I'm refilling. Because, you know. I am so good at mentally processing changes without talking them out with any of seven people nearby.
I've spent the morning sifting through apartment listings on craigslist and emailing people to set up appointments. Clicking on links and seeing photos of attic apartments with blue-gray walls and arched doorways is finally getting me excited about moving. There are so many apartments that accept dogs AND are near cute stores AND have hardwood floors. I keep forgetting that we might live someplace next year that is affordable and cute and nearby a grocery store that sells, oh, kumquats and chutney and marinated tofu. I'm sure I'll wander the streets and stores doing a mean imitation of someone who was just released from a small Eastern European country. You mean I can choose between this can bean and THIS can bean? I love Wisconsin! Be warned. If you run into me during August and September, I might be kicking it old country. What what!
The Internet sells your car, finds you an apartment in a city you've never visited, and shows you photos someone else took, including peeled potatoes and a display of Ukrainian condoms. I... I love you, Internet.
You sold the Green Machine? What else aren't you telling me? Did you get your arms sleeved in nautical tattoos? Are you grooming Truman like a poodle? Did you trade in the Ben for a Mario Lopez lookalike who calls you "Mama?"
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