Yesterday's rollercoaster hurtled out of left field and headed straight for my knees.
I remain haplessly bewildered, but the shock has yet to sink cold claws into my nerves.
At least I don't *think* I'm in shock.
I called my bank inquiring about a car loan yesterday afternoon.
Remember that whole delinquent thing?
I never got around to calling "Equifax". Irresponsible of me, I know. I know there's a Future-shop related debt due largely to my ex, but I thought that was it, and I've been attempting to deal with it.
Boy oh boy did I learn a lesson yesterday about following up on credit bullshit. The system really is a dangerous beast - the bank lady let slip that there's "five or more instances on your credit record, some of them write-offs" (write-offs apparently being that the company gave up on collecting even...)
"You're never getting a loan, even with a co-signer. You record is shot for the next 10 years at minimum".
Thanks, Tony. Holy fuck was I in battle shock after that one. Actually got some work done and everything - somehow being blindsided so completely spurred my DOM capabilities. Heh.
(I can't believe you never mentioned any of it, Tony... I really really can't, fuck - I've got tears in my eyes remembering the look on your face when you used to shake your head and say "it wasn't me" and then the stubborn look as you kept on swearing your lies even after we'd finally proven the bits and pieces back then. How could you never take anything that seriously? How? Marc swears it's because you're spoiled. Marc loves hating you, loves ranting about you, and I sit there over beer and try to explain how you're getting better, growing up... How it was my mistake not taking better care of my stuff, leaving my cards with you, and how I put too much pressure on you like your parents did... But yesterday, yesterday it was just shock. Not even enough strength for rage.)
I wandered out of here in angst. I had an appointment, tho - at a car dealership, which is why I'd called for the loan in the first place, to hear about rates... I went anyway.
I talked to the guy.
I told him what I was looking for.
He showed me the car, at exactly the price I was looking for.
I test drove it, pulling perfect u-turns because the steering is so clean.
I poked at the engine, seems I've learned a bit in the last month or so.
I watched them put on brand new tires for me.
I argued.
I signed.
I pick it up on Tuesday or Wedenesday, after they'ce completed the 100-point inspection and all the stuff I asked for.
I'm heading to the bank to get the check written out.
I have the credit of a street-punk-turned-maniacal-bored-housewife with too many credit cards, and I'm sitting here wondering if I can find bright blue furry seatcovers to combat the horrible "champagne-ness" of the car's exterior.
But y'know? It's not the car I was avoiding. It's not a posh-looking frightening thing, proof that I've left my roots behind, it's not the sort of car that will play status symbol to my coworkers.
It's not shiny enough to be any sort of symbol at all, but it's strong and it's safe and will survive almost anything I can put it through - and most of all...
...it has no pretenses.
The cascading rush of relief over not having to deal with the pressure of having a car that will draw attention to itself, over owning something that changes How People Look at Me, the pressure of wondering if I was turning yuppie.
It's not a pretty car, but it will safely carry my princess to Toronto if she so desires.
Maybe I'm just trying to say that I feel more honest driving it, than a 1998 Corolla like originally suggested.
Steven? You were right. I still owe you that beer. :)
And Tiffany? Tony, even?
Worse has happenned, let me know if you guys ever need a lift anywhere.