Ghettofaboolus

This week, my faboolussness has reached a whole new level.

It all started almost three years ago when I got a fabooluss deal on a 1995 BMW 3-series from a guy I worked with. Truth be told, I really only bought the car because it was the perfect shade of Philadelphia Eagle green, and it matched the license plate frame that I had. (I know that some of you don't doubt that for a second.)

I love this car. It is my joy, it is my passion. I never drive it, I just wipe it with a diaper. Oh wait, that's Cameron's dad.

But I do love this car, and my friends love to hate me in this car. I love to hate me in this car, as I recently caught myself being prejudiced against myself. I was driving on the freeway and when I got cut off by a beemer, I threw my hands up and moaned, "Oooooooh, better get out of the way of the beeeeeemer! Look at meeeee! I drive a beemer! I can do whatever I waaaaaaaaant! Everybody make room for the fancy car!"

Then it dawned on me that people probably think that same thing about me when I cut them off. I swear I'm different though - I can't help it that front row parking spots just happen to open up for me. I don't think I've walked more than a few feet through a parking lot in the past three years. My roommates swear that I'm ripping off handicapped signs just to get the spot.

But I really am different. My car is the only fancy thing about me, and it's not even fancy. Its eleven years old and clearly not a symbol of my status in society. Let me stress the fact that I paid way less for it that it was worth. I'm a total fraud and I think people are starting to catch on.

Which brings me to the topic of this post: how truly ghettofabooluss I am now. Three years ago, if Miss Cleo had told me that I'd be offered a steal-of-a-deal on a yuppy car that would guarantee me rock star parking and kissy faces from chicanos; but the trade off is that over the next three years I'd replace all four tires, both front control arms, the starter, the catalytic converter (twice), the fan clutch, the A/C belt and tensioner (three times), the serpentine belt, the thermostat, a handful of electrical relays, and the alternator; on top of $50 oil changes - - I'd have said, "Is it Philadelphia Eagle green?" Blink blink.

I've learned a lot from this car. For example, I've learned that when a mechanic tells you that your guibo (pronounced gwee-bo) needs to be replaced, in your moment of 'this guy is SO trying to rip me off because I'm a girl and I'm going to make my dad proud by standing up for myself', you shouldn't sarcastically ask if the guibo is located near the flux capacitor, because as it turns out, the guibo is a real German automotive part, and you'll just end up looking like an ass. Hypothetically.

I've also learned that nothing about my car is convenient, easy, or cheap. The battery is in the trunk, the window controls are in the center console, the back seatbelts are backwards, the oil pan is on the bottom but the oil filter is on the top....the list goes on and on.

But it does come with a built-in tool kit, filled with special BMW tools that do very specific things. This one is for when the sunroof gets stuck open, that one is for when the glove compartment won't stay closed, and this one is for when you turn your $40 laser cut key and nothing happens except that when you pull the key out, the battery stays on and you call your brother crying because you don't know which battery terminal is negative because it's labeled in German and the manual says that you must disconnect the negative first or else something bad will happen and then need to ask your roomate's brother to tow you to the mechanic in the middle of a snow storm.

Unfortunately, there is no tool for when your car sits at the mechanic for a week because in an attempt to expedite the situation, you had them order the part from a junkyard in Washington (who sent the wrong part), and then from a junkyard in New York (who also sent the wrong part) and then finally from the BMW dealership who takes twenty days to verify the security clearance of the mechanic by demanding copies of your title, registration, drivers license, birth certificate, college transcripts, bank statements, W2's and headshots to prove that you deserve to own this fine piece of German machinery.

There is, however, a tool that will allow you to operate the car while you're waiting for your level three BMW security clearance and the underside of your steering column is exposed with the blood and guts of your ignition hanging down. It's called a screwdriver. And let me tell you, it doesn't get more ghettofabooluss than me gingerly stepping into my car, taking care not to catch my four-inch heels on any of the wires, smoothing my skirt, putting on my purple sunglasses, and then starting the engine with my flat head screwdriver.

Now that's classy.