I can't sell it yet.
Yah see, I'm waiting for it to become old enough so that I'm not mortified by what I've done to it already. I don't see too many cars in my suburban utopia with dents on the sides from having backed up against the walls of a body shop (where I had gone to get it fixed). Who else has a fender bruise from having run over a huge souvenir tennis ball from the US open?
The outside isn't worth the huge investment of money it would take to make it look all Volvo pretty at this point. But I couldn't stand the inside anymore. So I took it to get car wash to get the car's interior shampooed.
I guess almost everyone else in the general area had the same idea. The place was hopping. The clientele seemed mostly made up of women and families. Chatting on their cell phones, they walked around the workers (I had a feeling if the immigration authorities raided the place we'd be waxing our own cars) who were vacuuming, washing and shampooing their BMW's and Excursions. As I watched, I couldn't help but observe that those of us who had the extra bucks to have somebody else wash the salt off of our cars were, by and large, behaving like real jerks around the Hispanic employees.
Already not at all well disposed towards my fellow status car owners (though after eight years I don't think my car qualifies), I paced in the chilly afternoon air. Then I overheard a woman on a cell phone behind me utter the magic word: "Thermage " That was it. I had to join the conversation.
You don't know what Thermage is? Shame on you.