I have car problems. It’s making funny noises. If you own a car, you’ve undoubtedly heard them. They might be scraping, squealing, thumping, banging or any other audible harbinger of doom. But you also know that ignoring them will be at your peril. So, cause aside, they are the sound of money preparing to leave your hands.

With my car now awaiting its turn in the cue to receive the expertise and loving care of the mechanic (and a large infusion of cash), I must take extreme measures. Drive my husband’s car. We are blessed to have that option; however, it involves other car problems that aren’t all mechanical.

My spouse drives an idiotic car. It’s a replacement for his previous not-wife-friendly vehicle, a manual. The Car Guy enjoys a challenge and likes a manual transmission for his driving pleasure. I can drive a manual, but why would I when technology removed that need decades ago? For years, he enjoyed his primitive toy (not his first), and I buttoned my lips. But then he began regularly transporting grandchildren and their gear to an activity, and he needed to use the larger car. Mine. That left me to drive his. Back issues made it difficult for me to use a clutch, resulting in car problems. Eventually, he replaced that set of wheels with his current idiotic one. It seems idiotic cars are not one-offs; they are an entire class.

His current chariot is not a manual, nudging it into the acceptable category—marginally. It’s a small, basic, used BMW, perfect for his short drive to work. For the uninitiated, let me introduce you to the world of BMWs and my recent car problems. Do you remember what parking was like during the era before power steering? If you’re old enough, you will. The BMW has steering only one notch above that, meaning you must still wrestle it into a parking space and hope you win. The salesperson’s pitch explained they’re for drivers who “want to feel the road.” I have no difficulty “feeling the road” in my car. If I were to drive over a log, I would know it. I don’t need to feel every crack in the pavement or pea-sized stone.

And it has bat wings. They’re side mirrors that fold like bat wings when the creatures hunker down for a cold winter’s nap. Once, I accidentally bumped against one after parking, and the wings tucked in—almost forever. There was no button or lever I could discover that would wake them. Eventually, I called the person driving my normal car, and he directed me to a tiny, nearly invisible button that engaged the reanimation ceremony. Finding it was worthy of an escape room challenge.

My most notable adventure while driving his car has earned a place in the “Remember When” annals of family lore. It was closer to driver problems than car problems but still ridiculous. We had switched cars, and I later met the gang at a restaurant for ice cream. They arrived before I did, and the grandkids anxiously watched the four-lane street for my arrival. Somehow, I engaged the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal, which immediately flustered me—while the audience watched. After I sorted it out, which was not as easy as it might seem, and landed, the first question from several little mouths was, “Grandma, why did you turn on your wipers?” Sigh. They never let me forget.

I don’t foresee my adventure-loving spouse replacing his bouncy buggy anytime soon, but undoubtedly, more idiotic cars will await us when the time comes. In the meantime, my gratitude and esteem for mechanics who fix car problems and funny noises has risen dramatically.