KAREN WIGHT -- No Place Like Home

I realize that my tastes and my husband’s are never going to mesh

perfectly. He’s a jock, I’m not. He couldn’t care less if the bed is made

in the morning, I can’t leave the house until the breakfast dishes are in

the dishwasher and the beds have their corners tightly tucked.

We’re a little like the “Green Acres” couple, just add a few kids and

trade a mixed-breed dog for the pig.

I subscribe to the theory that opposites attract, and so far it’s

worked. However, there is an issue that divides us. We’ve never even been

able to agree to disagree. The issue is the car.

Now, if Ben and I saw this issue eye to eye, literally, we would not

have a problem. But I am a full 10 inches shorter than he. This was a

good idea when I considered the gene pool for my children, but for car

harmony, it’s very bad.

And then there’s the music. My car musical repertoire includes James

Taylor, Kenny Loggins, the Mamas and the Papas, Cat Stevens and the

soundtrack to “Thoroughly Modern Millie.” Don’t laugh. My husband thinks

it’s awful too. Ben definitely subscribes to a more visceral and less

eclectic musical selection.

During the week, Ben drives a truck. It works for his business. There

is an extra seat so he can haul extra kids along if he needs to, but the

truth is, he prefers to drive the family car.

I don’t blame him. I like my car better too. It’s big, has a lot of

seat belts, a nice sound system and, basically, it’s more comfortable.

I can’t find fault in the pursuit of creature comforts, except that

every time he gets into “my” car, he adjusts the seat, rearview mirror

and side mirrors, and changes the music. It annoys me.

In the big picture, I know this is minor. But when I’m in a hurry and

hop in my car, my foot can’t even touch the gas pedal. It’s annoying. And

the music? After Ben has been in my car, my “Sweet Baby James” is no

longer “Goin’ to Carolina.”

We have never been able to establish car boundaries. Technically,

because he is the bread winner in the family, I guess it’s his car. I, as

the severely underpaid chauffeur, cook and maid, consider the car to be

one of my “perks.”

The point was driven home, again, last week when hubbie was involved

in a fender-bender in “my” car. It wasn’t his fault, but now “my” car is

tweaked.

There is a lovely white streak down the side of my black car. Aside

from looking like a skunk as I drive down the road, being in an accident

is a little inconvenient. Call the insurance, go to the adjuster, contact

the body shop and rent a car (a sedan).

I’m missing the extra car. A 1961 bug bus that Ben “had” to have to go

to the beach. I love the bus. I consider it to be a cheap and highly

moral form of midlife crisis.

It’s at the shop being brought up to speed (not literally, it will

only go 40 mph) for the impending new driver in the house. Even though

it’s a tin can and people stare at me when I noisily drive by, it is

amusing to cruise and watch people point and laugh.

The bus is so primitive that there is no sound system. There is not

even an AM/FM radio to fight over. When you are in the bus, all you hear

is the rattle of the engine.

I’m going to try to not be bitter as I drive the kids around in a

smoky sedan with red vinyl seats that our legs stick to. But I think this

gives me enough ammunition to insist that I get first dibs on the music

in “my” car for a while.

* KAREN WIGHT is a Newport Beach resident. Her column runs Sundays.