I lived happily for years in New York and Washington, DC without a car, and the times when I’ve owned one have always felt like a big hassle. So I’m not the type to fall in love with my car. Or maybe I just haven’t owned the right one yet. When I was sixteen, I learned to drive the various wrecks my parents had. They bought all their cars used,…
I recently became the proud owner of a Toyota Prius. It’s green with a tan interior and it gets a gazillion miles to the gallon. Seriously. Here in Los Angeles, Priuses are like an epidemic. One day, my husband and I sat on our balcony and watched fifteen cars drive by. No lie, eight of them were Priuses. I’ve heard rumors that this is not the case in other parts…
Ultimately, my mother couldn’t teach me to drive. I can still hear the “clack” of her ring smacking into the door frame as she grabbed on for dear life through the open window of the family Mazda. So. It was all up to Dad. When I managed to pass muster on the Mazda, it was time for my own car. I ended up with a 1984 Chevy Cavalier, like this…
When my husband was in high school he got to drive one of two cars. The first was a beat-up old orange Opel, the back of the car filled at all times with newspapers to be hauled to recycling (very advanced for the 70’s, mind you), and a humiliating-to-a-teenager bumper sticker that boasted: I MAY BE SLOW BUT I GO GO GO! His other car was the family station wagon,…
Dear Oppressor, I appreciate that you’ve found me a warmer house–I don’t mind being outside sometimes, but I prefer to spend my nights indoors. I enjoy your company, when you grace me with your presence and I have kept your secret about the music you play when we’re alone on the road–no one needs to know about your penchant for Poison, Whitesnake and Bon Jovi since we are, after all,…
Spiders send me into paroxysms of joy. Or my first car, a 1980 Fiat Pininfarina Spider 2000 did anyway. I have no idea how I came to own the car. One day it appeared in the driveway and my mother told me that on the 5th of each month I’d need to pay some guy named Courtney $200.00.
I spend my time in the car daydreaming that I am going or coming from a more exciting place than work. Take yesterday evening as an example; I was on my way home engaging in a particular daydream where I achieve literary greatness. I hobnob with famous author types at swanky literary parties. My agent calls me to tell me that my book has sold a zillion copies and we’re…
1987. First year at Wellesley (yes, I went there by choice and no, I’m not a lesbian, and yes, okay, I am a Democrat and I voted for Bill, but no, I don’t vote straight ticket, I swear). I become best friends with a girl from MIT, my first real best friend since elementary school. She has a Mercedes 300D. It’s beige. I’ve never had a car, I don’t really…
I’m going to break the rules this week and talk about my second car, since my first was a bewitching silver minx of a Mazda 626, given to me by my father, who needed someone else to do the grocery shopping already. She was perfection on wheels, I used her and abused her and didn’t appreciate her dependability nearly enough. When the time came for my dad to move from…
I was thrilled when, at the age of 16, I was given a white Volvo sedan, one of my dad’s company cars, to drive — thrilled mostly because my other option was an ages-old Hyundai, a sort of puke-colored thing that always reminded me of a Flinstones-type of car with two running feet in lieu of an engine. The Volvo was reliable, a cool color, and, people often reminded me,…
