I've owned three cars in my life.

My days of car ownership began when I spent a whopping $500 on a semi-abandoned 1988 Plymouth Reliant. That was back in 2000. The car wasn't quite as old as me, but we could've gone to elementary school together. The rust colored Plymouth had previously been my Grandma's car. She'd upgraded to a nicer, newer vehicle (that happened to belong to my Uncle previously - what can I say, we like the keep cars in the family) and kicked the old Plymouth to the curb, where it languished for about 8 months. Weeds grew up around it, the undercarriage developed a swiss cheesey rust pattern. But when I climbed into that bench seat and put my hands on the wheel of my very own car for the first time, I felt like I was in the drivers seat of a sports car. Sure it needed some work, but nothing I couldn't handle: The radio was busted  - but my friends can sing to me to compensate me for driving them around town! The passenger rear-view window was electrical taped to the car - sturdily taped, thankyouverymuch. Is the ceiling fabric supposed to drape against your head? No? Ok, hand me that staple gun. Who needs 4 hubcabs?? 2 seems perfectly adequate.
Anybody with legs longer than mine has to sit in the back or let them be squashed - the bench seat is a true mark of socialism - what works for the driver shall work for us all!

But damn, that car was great. Her failings and foibles earned her the inappropriate/fitting moniker Welfare Wendy. Welfare Wendy took me where I needed to go. She was my high school chariot. A few years later, when the brakes failed and my sister nearly got into an accident coming down a hill in town, I had to restrain myself from not blaming my sister for killing Wendy.

After my welfare-mobile, my second car was SUCH a tradeup. My folks happened to be cruising along a backroad in Vermont one day and saw a jade green convertible Volkswagon Cabriolet with a For Sale sign. After a cursory lookover my Dad informed me that he'd found my next car. I was the owner of a convertible?!?! Too cool. Now if only I knew how to drive stick I could actually take my new wheels out for a spin. The new car, christened Betty, started out great. I slowly, painfully, learned to drive stick and she came with me to my sophomore year at Muhlenberg. I loved taking friends out for a spin (all but Bob, who at 6'4" wasn't too keen on Betty's lack of leg room). But Betty turned out to be a real bitch. Volkswagons are a pain in the ass to repair and Betty had a host of mechanical maladies. After breaking down on the side of the highway one too many times, I was glad to bid Betty adieu.

This brings us up to the present and my current car, Buddy. He's a 2000 Honda Civic and he's been so good to me. With the exception of a catalytic convertor, he's needed next to nothing in the maintenance department. Oh, aside from his A/C which hasn't worked for the past few years. He's missing a hubcap, too, come to think of it. A month ago I was having trouble with the rear driver's side door - it wasn't opening from the inside. I fiddled around with something in the door and now it won't open. At all. Whoops. The last bit of trouble with Buddy is his damn catalytic convertor. The new one is busted, too! I don't know how it does it, but he goes through those things. So I've been driving around with the Check Engine light on for a few months. So his state inspection is REALLY overdue. He's a jalopy. I love him despite the fact that I don't take the best care of him and fully intend on running him into the ground.


Sometimes my life feels like one giant jalopy. I love it, but there are parts of my life that seem like they are kept together with duct tape and hope. There are problems I've been avoiding. Things that need fixing.

Maybe this blog will help me remedy some of the jalopy parts of my life. In the very least, help me revel in them. Cause in my experience, jalopys are jalopies because they're loved. If somewhat lazily.