Lola, Penelope and Karen

I just want to start by saying that I was all set to go along with this post the other day, but then I started a new medication and let me tell you, it and myself, we are not friends. We're not cool. We don't get along. I hate taking anything in the first place, but I try to shut up and let the doctors do their job. Then, when the medication decides it hates me and I decide the feeling is mutual, we have a little battle and I stop taking it. What I'm trying to say is that, if this post is a little wonkier than normal, you can totally blame the medication for that, and it taking me a few days to get this posted.

Since I'm over sharing, I would also like to point out that this is easily the most emotionally confused I've ever been. Easily. It's probably time for me to be moving on, but then Aunt Bev keeps pointing out that if you always come back to someone, and them to you, and have for years, there's probably a reason and you need to shut up, stick it out, and if both of you are single at the same time, quit your whining and give things a try. Only she said it nicer and much funnier. I'm working on a blog about this conversation. It's entertaining, plus heartwarming. Anyway, medication and issues of the heart are not what I want to talk about in this post.

Instead, I would like to announce that it’s sad and random news time here at Ruby Red Hearts. Recently, I mentioned Aunt Bev’s car. Well, I have to tell you all that it has passed away. And by passed away, I mean it has a hole in the undercarriage, and every time I hear that I think of Jessica Simpson in The Dukes of Hazzard (2:20). I’m just saying. (That one was totally for you, Aunt Bev. I know anytime "I'm just saying" comes up, you automatically think of Kanye. There, I Kanyed the story about your car.)

We were just short of holding a funeral for said beloved car, as Aunt Bev has had it for fifteen years, and, to date, is still apprehensive about getting rid of it to get a new car. Aunt Bev, don’t think of it as getting rid of a car, think of it as retiring your car so that it can finally rest in peace as payment for being good to you for all of these years. Stay strong. It will be okay. We will even name your new car to give it an identity you can’t refuse to love.

While we are waiting to go new car shopping with Aunt Bev, I will tell you other stories about other things involving my mom and Aunt Bev. Among those things is the idea that Aunt Bev had to get a shirt that says, “I’m the Aunt Bev you read about on Ruby Red Hearts.” I think this is a spectacular idea, and I’m seriously considering getting this for her for Christmas. If I do, you all will be the first to know in the form of a picture.

Before I get too ahead of myself, I would like to go back to that whole car thing again. Aren’t I just a little bundle of confusion and ADHD? Long story short, when Aunt Bev goes car shopping, I plan on going with her. She saw a car she likes and pretty much thinks she’s going with that one, and I would like to see it, too.

You see, I have a torrid love going with my car, but no matter how great the love, the truth is that my car has given up on life. It may be fixable, but it’s also very possible that it would cost a good bit of money to fix and we’d be better to sell it for parts and get me a new car when we have the money to do so. Let me tell you a little saga about my car.

It all started on one spring day a year ago. It was sunny, gorgeous, and everything was in full bloom. I took my car out for a drive, the wind in my hair, the days limited as to how long I would be able to drive before the doctor decided it wasn’t safe for me to do so anymore. I was thoroughly enjoying my day out and my time feeling well when, all of a sudden, out of the blue, I went to start my car after some shopping and it wouldn’t start again. I cried.

Long story short, the car did start up again quite awhile later, after I had been taken home and decided to wait until the next morning when places were actually open to take care of the car. Morning rolled around and we went back to my poor little car who spent the night all alone without my mom’s car, its best friend, to keep it company. I got in, turned the key for kicks, and it started again.

Over the next few weeks, this became a pattern on and off. Sometimes I would take it out and it would be fine. Others, I would take it out, it would run fine, give up on me when I went to restart it after shopping, and when we’d go back to get it, it would start fine. Or, my favorite one, if it was idled for too long, it just poop out and stall.

Then it began to get crafty and, when it did restart, it would start to smell like it was burning, but it didn’t actually smoke. Obviously, my poor little car needed help. This would be the part where I tell you it got fixed and we lived happily ever after, only that would be a lie. Six times in the garage and three mechanics later, no one could figure out what in the hell was wrong with it. They were all over it and no one could come up with a damn thing that was out of place, wonky or otherwise causing shenanigans.

The car came back home with us and rested its little head in the garage right next to my mom’s car. I should probably tell you the names of both of the cars just so this doesn’t get any less confusing. Yes, I’m saying naming the cars is going to be less confusing than calling the cars “my car” and “my mom’s car.” Don’t you love the logic I have; the one that doesn’t exist?

This is where it gets complicated. My car’s name is Lola, but when she misbehaves I call her Penelope, because she’s a little iffy on the name and I think it’s funny to taunt her. My mom’s car's name is Karen. Karen is what my mom calls herself. I wish I could find the clip from Boy Meets World that explains this, but instead I will just explain in the shortest way possible. One time on Boy Meets World, Eric happened to say something about Kyle. Eric’s dad asked who Kyle was and he responded with, “That’s what I call myself, you know.” From that point on, my mom and I made it a joke to call ourselves something that has nothing to do with our actual names. She’s Karen and I’m Cassadee.

You probably already knew the Cassadee part being as it's the name I use when I write and what not. Unless you didn't know Cassadee wasn't my real name, then you're probably just confused. My real name is Amy, by the way, but please feel free to call me Cassadee, Cassie, or Cass. When I get a chance, I'm planing on changing it. One day I will tell you the story of why, as it's not because I just want to, but that's not the point right now.

Anywho, before I veer any further off topic and right into a pond, let me get back to the car story. After months of Penelope sitting in the garage doing nothing, Karen broke down and needed a little bit of work done because she’s a little older, but still very cute, she’ll have you know. My mom could not be without Karen, being as it was the only working car, and we had a ton of doctor’s appointments that I could not reschedule for many months, so we had no choice but to give Penelope another shot and pray we didn’t get stuck anywhere and be forced to befriend a shady looking guy with a tow truck, and a liking towards them there roadkill.

To the surprise of everyone, including Penelope herself, Penelope worked just fine, therefore making her Lola again. Still with me? No. I don’t blame you.

The torrid love between Lola and myself began again as Lola continued to work for my mom, and any time she was needed like nothing was ever wrong with her. We were filled with glee, and then the best thing happened ever; I was granted permission to drive again. I was so happy I could skip through clouds of unicorns and candy canes. I took Lola out for a drive a few times to pick things up and enjoy my freedom, when, you guessed it, she became Penelope again.

Penelope is now doing the exact same thing as she was doing last year. We haven’t even taken her to get looked at because we pretty much figure we know what kind of response we’re going to get. We literally decided we’re just going to save up money, take her to the mechanic, drop her off and tell him to not return her until he finds out what’s wrong with her, and if that never happens, sell her for parts. This saddens me because I love my car very much. I love the size of her, the way she runs, and practically everything else about her.

But with Aunt Bev getting a new car, it was time to face the facts that I may have to do the same thing in the somewhat near future. I know I’m never going to be able to afford a car as nice as the one I have now again, and I’m going to have to downsize. I am terribly afraid of small cars because I was once rear ended in one several years ago. It was a true accident; the guy’s brakes gave out, but he wasn’t going all that fast and I had to have the entire trunk replaced. If someone would have hit me driving quickly and not paying attention, instead of not driving quickly and trying desperately to miss me like the guy who hit me did, I don’t even want to think about what would happen. Therefore, I have a phobia of small cars. I wonder if there's a name for that.

So short story extremely long, and now that you’ve completely forgotten what I was talking about, I’m going to get to the point of this. Finally, right? I am going to go with Aunt Bev to look at the car she’s most likely going to get, because it has a lifetime warranty on it and everyone thinks it’s a good deal. I have to start considering options, just in case, so my mom really wants me to see this car. I have a feeling it’s going to be a small car that freaks me out, but I’m trying to keep my options open, especially with the warranty and what not.

There’s a few things you have to know for the following punch line to make sense. First is that the guy at the dealership has a thing for Aunt Bev and apparently wasn’t shy about showing it. I heard all about it and was undoubtedly glad that I was not there. Second is that the guy got it in his head somehow that Aunt Bev was coming in to purchase a new car on a particular day, when she wasn’t even sure she would need one yet. The guy tried to call Aunt Bev, and when he couldn’t get a hold of her, he called my mom asking where she was. Please tell me I’m not the only one that finds this weird and sees as least three freakishly strange things wrong with this. I can’t even go there.

While we were discussing going to get Aunt Bev a new car, and I assured her I would definitely go with her, she told me to make sure I wore something low cut to make sure she got a good deal. My mom mentioned that the guy had eyes for Aunt Bev and wasn’t even going to look at me. Aunt Bev mentioned that he hadn’t met me yet. This became a conversation about how the guy was in his 60s and he’d be a dirty old man if he checked me out, but as long as Aunt Bev got a better deal on the car, that would be okay.

This is also the part of the blog that I would like to point out that alone, this wouldn’t be so bad, however, this isn’t the first time Aunt Bev has convinced me to use my boobs in a car related matter. Last year when my mom’s car tried to murder me all on its own free will, she mentioned that I take it to a nearby garage to get it looked out. I was over an hour away from home with not nearly enough money on me to have anything fixed. Plus, it wasn’t my car so I couldn’t authorize the fixing of anything, and I couldn’t get a hold of my mom. Aunt Bev told me just to get it looked at and show some cleavage so they didn’t charge me for it. I did, it worked, we got things straightened out and I made it home safely free of charge. Aunt Bev knows what she’s talking about. Sometimes, it really does pay to be a whore.

This is now a public service announcement brought to you by Dear Cassadee; it does not pay to be a whore. Keep it in your pants.

Now, I know that I talk about Aunt Bev and my mom a lot, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned that my mom always says, “my girlfriend Beverly.” She means it in the way that she is a girl who is her friend, very old fashioned, but I pointed out several times how that sounds. Therefore, it’s become a long running joke that they’re lesbian lovers. They’re not, however, this made for a very special moment the other day while my mom was talking to one of her clients who also knows Aunt Bev.

My mom called said client to set up an appointment with her to go look at houses and discuss the sale of her house. As they were talking, my mom started a sentence with, “Client, will you...” Client didn’t give her a chance to get her sentence out. Instead she responded with, “No, I will not marry you.” There was a pause before she followed up with, “Sorry, it’s just the way you started the sentence.”

Since Client is a fun lady, my mom told her that she was very sorry, but she was already attached to Aunt Bev, her lesbian lover, and she couldn’t cheat on her. However, Aunt Bev had her boyfriend call the house the other day and my mom was not happy about this. Now, Aunt Bev doesn’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, but for those of you keeping up, think back to when I told you about the guy at the car dealership who called my mom looking for Aunt Bev and this will all make sense.

My mom ended the phone call with Client, did some work, and then called her again with a follow up regarding some new homes to look at for Client. My mom then told Client that, while she was doing her work, she changed her mind and decided she would like to marry Client. When Aunt Bev heard this, she did not take it as my mom was breaking up with her, but as they were now having a threesome.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, my mom and Aunt Bev aren’t lesbians and they’re not dating. They never will. This is what makes this so incredibly awesome, and also makes it sound like they have a twisted history and lots of skeletons. They do not.

But have you ever tried to clean out your garage after a year of neglect? (Why does this line sound like a tag from Jeff Foxworthy's comedy tour?) That’s where you’ll find skeletons of any kind, or, in my case, an army of ants several hundred strong. Because they just weren’t cute enough, I texted my mom to alert her and the following conversation ensued.

Mom: “Did you get rid of them?”

Me: “They refused to pay rent so I saw no reason to let them continue to live here.”

Mom: “We don’t like freeloaders. *Black girl finger snap*”

Me: “Oh no you didn’t!”

Mom: “Oh yes I did!”

I don’t know if it was the worst idea ever to teach my mom how to text, or the best. Considering it took her fifteen minutes to decide what kind of sandwich she wanted through text the other day, I’m going to say the worst. Remind me that the next time I’m at the store picking up something for her, to just call her instead of stupidly texting her to ask her what kind she wants. Ay caramba!

Since we’re focusing on my mom, I would like to tell you one other little idiocy that I learned about her the other dayy. I should probably first explain that every single day I learn some little idiosyncrasy about her, like the fact that she both knows and says *black girl finger snap.* She likes to keep it fresh, which leaves me with many stories and moments of amusement.

Enter the other day when we were having a quite normal conversation about a significant other versus a dog. The new guy at the office was regaling everyone with a story about how his girlfriend was moving in with him and he had to get rid of his dog because she’s severely allergic. Everyone in the office agreed they’d rather have the animal over the girl.

My mom then came home and told me this story, to which I told her about a Facebook status I had posted the other day which said, “The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog.” This is also a Carrie Underwood song, for those of you who would like to jam out to it.

I shared with my mom that happens to be a general consensus that dogs are better than significant others because a bunch of girls agreed with this status, and my one guy friend, Mikey, not to be confused with Mike, also agreed. It doesn’t get any better than a boy also agreeing with this, which is probably why we’ve gotten along for almost four years, but that’s another story.

Why is all of this important and how is this an idiosyncrasy, you ask? When I told my mom this she asked me who Mikey was. I was in complete shock for about three minutes until I was able to explain who he was to her. She responded by telling me that she thought the Mikey I was talking about was just some not so real person I was talking about in abstract when I needed an example.

Let me point out a few things wrong with this. First, who makes up a person? Who? And why? Why? How? Why? Second, Mikey is an easily memorable individual. He has ear gages, a lip ring and tattoos, but is every cliche because he’s about the nicest person in the world.

Oh, and she’s met him numerous times in the past four years.

When she was looking for something technology related to buy, she went into his place of work looking specifically for him to ask him about it, because she trusted him and knew that he knew what he was talking about.

And there you have it folks, the moral of the story. Just because my mom has met someone several times and goes to their place of work specifically for their assistance, does not mean she will believe he is a real person.