My father, the car (salesman)

On Saturday, my daddy bought me a car. Yes, really.

I have decided I am not above this for several reasons. For one, I need a car and I can't afford to buy one. I was going to lease one, thus jumping onto the same rental merry-go-round that I've been in for the past 15 years with dwellings. Fun!

For two, in a way he's just paying me back for the $240 a month that I've been spending on therapy for the past five years, and will continue to spend most likely until I retire. Because when it comes to crazy, you know what they say: like daddy, like daughter!

But I think the bottom line is that there's really no reason for me to feel bad about it anyway. So my parents are a bit more comfortable in their later years, and my dad made me a rather expensive and very useful gift. So what? He didn't actually buy me the whole car - he just put down a sizable downpayment. I'll be making the payments on the loan, which is in my name. And my excellent credit rating got me a very low fixed interest rate. So take THAT, all of you invisible people judging me!

An interesting thing popped up during the transaction - something I'd forgotten about, or maybe never really registered in the first place. Which is that for several months not long after Katrina, my dad sold cars at a Lincoln-Mercury dealership on the Westbank.

Now, you don't know my dad, so you have know idea how strange this is. My father is one of those men who gets nervous if there are more than three people in a room. Other human beings are not his forte. So that he took employ in a position where communication is everything and personality is key? Frankly I'm a little sad that I never saw it in action, because it's pretty hard to imagine.

You may be wondering, how did that come up? This is the part where you have to understand that for all its expanse in square miles, New Orleans is really just a small town, with every neighbor peering into everyone else's backyards and everyone being somebody's cousin. And so, as fate or luck or sheer Nola degrees of separation would have it, the manager of the Honda dealership we went to was of course managed by the man who hired my father to sell cars back in 2006.

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