It’s been a long time.

I’ve searched and searched.

I’ve been scammed.

I’ve been disappointed.

I’ve been tempted to give up all hope.

But yesterday, my dreams came true.

Because when it comes to a car hunt, you can’t just be ruthless.

Be Subaruthless.

On this little blog, I don’t really talk in specifics about my dating life (do I have a dating life? You’ll never know). In the event that any given romantic endeavor doesn’t work out, I can handle my own disappointment – but the collective devastation of us all? That would just be too much.

I actually approach a lot of things like this. Unless something is a “done deal,” I don’t really volunteer much information about it. I have a secret project right now that will be blogged about at some point, but not yet. I have some upcoming plans that you’ll hear about, but not until they are fleshed out a bit more. I have some big ideas and dreams and such, but right now, they’re just that: ideas and dreams and such. Blame it on the fear of everything coming crashing down, but for now, my lips are sealed.

So with that said, maybe it’s a risky thing of me to talk about something that is by no means a “done deal.” But tomorrow, I have an appointment to go look at a car – one that, from the ad, looks like it very well might be “the one.”

And I have no idea how to buy a car.

And my dad is out of the country.

And I’m afraid of making the wrong decision.

Mike already pointed me toward a very helpful video of Cliff Huxtable and his game plan for negotiation. I plan on showing up looking one step above homeless, and talking about the moment that I realized I was poor (when I started eating the heel of the bread). But beyond that, I’m nervous that I’ll overlook the important things.

So, blog readers, tell me. What is a Carfax? What are the important questions to ask? What repairs should be red alerts? And when all else fails, is “going with my gut” as good a plan as I’ve typically found it to be?*

*Except for that time when I spent $400 on a date at a date auction.  But I don’t talk about dating here.

Some of you have been asking about my search for the ideal purse.*

Listen, all I want is something dark brown and genuine leather, with no silver buckles or gold chains, small enough to carry into a bar, but large enough to lift a bottle of wine from a wedding reception. That’s all. And I can’t find it.

*Total lie. No one has asked. I wanted to talk about it anyway.

Since the Honda died 4 weeks ago, here is what I have been doing:

1) Checking Craigslist incessantly for cars. I am on the hunt for something that is Colorado-worthy, will do well in snow, and has high enough clearance to get into the mountains in the summer – however, I also want something with decent gas mileage that will cruise like a champion on long road trips. It needs to have low enough miles that I will be able to drive it for a lot of years, but high enough miles that I can afford it. And I definitely want a manual transmission and keyless entry. Is that too much to ask?

2) Test driving cars on lots. I don’t plan on buying from a lot, but it’s kind of fun to explore my options. I’m finding that car shopping can be a lot like dating, if you take your cues from, you know, the Spice Girls: “I won’t be hasty, I’ll give you a try / If you really bug me then I’ll say goodbye.”

3) Feeling generally cantankerous about having a car payment. The last time I had a car payment was… basically never. This is both a life shift and a major budget shift, and in the meantime, I’m figuring out some ways to cut costs and cut corners. It’s all going to be fine, but still – who wants another bill?

4) Driving my sister Sarah’s ‘94* Corolla. While she’s in Haiti, her little ruby red sedan has been parked in front of my parent’s house. This is lucky for me, because if she hadn’t offered, I’d be hoofing it. And in case you were doubting the cool factor of the Corolla, I should tell you that it’s name is Gene Parmesan. If you know the reference, you win the day.

*UPDATE: Sarah tells me that Gene is, in fact, a ‘97.  My entire life has been a lie.

Yesterday, I swung by a girly store to look for some negligee for a friend who is getting married.  As I browsed the skivvies, a woman came up to me and pointed to a particular bra.

“This one looks SO GOOD on,” she declared.

“Excellent!” I replied.  And… awkward? I thought.  Because who likes to talk to strangers about their undergarments – I mean, besides Southwest Airlines, and Annie Parsons on her blog?

“In fact,” the woman continued, “I’m wearing it right now!”

Oh gosh oh Lord oh no no no no -

She pulled down her shirt and showed me not just a strap of the bra, but an entire boob of the bra.

And what can I say?  I bought it.

You want to know what the lamest thing to spend money on is?  A vacuum cleaner.  I am currently researching the suckers, and it’s even less exciting than spending money on a beige bra.

Speaking of annoying purchases, I don’t think that dryer sheets make any difference.  They are a scam – a dishonest scheme to make you spend more money.

For a lot of years, I followed the instructions on the tube of toothpaste: “Squeeze 1 inch of toothpaste onto brush.”  One inch?  One INCH?  I was going through a tube of toothpaste every 3 weeks.

We are encouraged to get the oil changed in our cars every 3,000 miles.  I will typically wait until somewhere between 4-5,000.  My car is swiftly approaching the two-decade marker, but I never pay the extra money for the oil for my old (I prefer to call her “mature”) car.  And guess what: the Honda is holding together just fine.  Still.

I wonder how often we’re supposed to change our Brita water filters?  I’ve probably had the same one in my pitcher for a year.  I might as well just strain my water through some rocks or something.

I can’t help it.  I like to make my money go as far as it can.

However, there is one thing that I have recently decided is worth letting go of before I’ve squeezed every possible ounce of use out of it.  And that is…

The bar of soap.

When it reaches that flimsy, frail thinness, and you can’t use it without breaking it in half, then just let it go.  Because it’s gone.

On Saturday, I had an idea: “I should go to Forever 21!”  This always sounds like a good idea – cheap clothes, cute ruffles, trends that will go out of style tomorrow but you must have them today, etc.  However, upon my arrival at the front doors, I was reminded of the cold, hard truth – a truth that I already knew, since I have learned it many times before, but I always forget when I get swept up in the moment.

I HATE Forever 21.

It is my own personal hell.

First of all, is there any rhyme or reason to the way that the clothes are arranged?  It is impossible to find anything in that store.  Racks of magenta clubbing attire next to bins of mesh t-shirts beside half-clothed mannequins on top of tables piled high with plastic belted cardigans…  It’s like the cast of “High School Musical” set off a dirty bomb.

Secondly, the music is unbelievably obnoxious.  I can’t decide if it makes me want to curl into the fetal position or open fire.  Must shoppers be subjected to songs that include panting?  Panting?

And finally, do any of the clothes even fit me?   I mean, I know that technically, these items are made for pre-pubescent, hipless anorexics, but I have plenty of curvy lady friends who find treasures there.  I don’t expect that a Forever 21 medium will fit me like an Actual Normal Sized Woman medium might, so I have no problem looking at the larges, and even extra-larges.  But honestly?  Extra-extra-large?

That’s just rude.

I bought nothing.

I’m in the grocery store of dreams
No less than once a week
To sample cheese and hummus dips
And try to sneak a peek
At you, the tall and scruffy boy
Who works the checkout lines;
You scan the produce and the bread
But sadly, not the wine
(For Tennessee is far too strict
Regarding grocery sales:
No wine or liquor on the shelves,
But only Pumpkin Ales).
You’re cute and quiet, have good shoes,
And always wear a smile,
I wait in your line even if
It’s backed up for a mile.

The end.

In her memoir “Eat, Pray, Love,” Elizabeth Gilbert succinctly defines the human condition as simply “the heartbreaking inability to sustain contentment.”

Any attempt that I throw at happiness will eventually fade. No amount of money, power, fame, clout, success, wit, possessions, or H-O-double-T hottness is going to be enough to fulfill that eternally aching place in my spirit. I know that on my own, I cannot make and keep myself content – it’s impossible.

But I thought I would try, anyway.

Behold! My new shoes!

The picture shows the color to be greyish, but trust me, these babies are teal. As soon as I set eyes on these gems, I thought, “Now, those are Annie Shoes if I’ve ever seen them.” And since I had a gift card given to me on my birthday, they were free (thanks, Becca!).

Whoever said that you can’t buy happiness has obviously never been to Target.