There’s a certain attachment developed with a first car. They are usually treated like a newborn child, christened with a name, looked on adoringly and even referred to as ‘My Baby’. My first car, a 1998 black Holden Barina City, was thoughtfully named Jet after her nightshade colour and tendency to sound like a small jet upon acceleration, as well as taking off fast enough to survive any quick getaway during a Zombie apocalypse. It was first suggested that she should be called another shade of black (a name I shall not mention, like wizards and you-know-who) – but I quickly reminded said suggester that the name had connotations with someone from my past that I was not very fond of. That’s the polite version, I’ll leave it up to imagination what was actually said…biatch.
So my car was officially Jet, and let’s just say that Jet is a tad temperamental. Of course, probably through no fault of her own, but when you personify your vehicle with a name you imagine certain personality traits.
One being, ‘She doesn’t like being left out in the sun’. Jet’s roof is a bit faded, so she’s spent her fair share of time under the UV rays, but unlike me when exposed to these rays she goes a little less black. I, on the other hand, after being a little too zealous that the sun had finally shown itself after days and days of gloomy rain, failed to sunscreen certain parts of my body whilst at the beach. So…Hello human Neapolitan ice cream! Worst – tan line – ever. Except for those people with goggle tan, I feel sorry for those people. Anyways, back to my car. She doesn’t like it in the sun as I, cursing that I had lost my previous car space, parked her in full 32 degree heat, no cracked windows. Result? Two lovely little blisters where I burnt myself on the steering wheel, and a short drive back home in a mini sauna, barely able to shift gears (did I mention Jet lacks air conditioning at the current moment?). Lesson thoroughly learned.
Number two, “Jet must hate my singing”. The stereo has turned itself off twice now for no apparent reason, refusing to come back on, much to my dismay. When I’m alone in a car I must be able to sing at the top of my lungs. Must be a lonesome thing, because when my music died I continued to talk very loudly to myself in strange voices similar to that of Pee Wee Herman. I’m sorry that my dulcet karaoke tones belting over my new Kelly Clarkson album offends people, namely my car, but it is my god given right, heck, everyone’s right, to sing like nobody’s watching in the comfort of their own car, in between cursing at tailgaters and people who don’t know how to indicate.
I have been nice to her though, on most occasions. I polished her with such serious wax on, wax off action that I was surprised I wasn’t a black belt in Karate by the time I was finished. I bought her things to make her all pretty, like girly butterfly seat covers, oh yes, and I spent too long on making my own key ring. Luckily the thought was there because, man, is that thing ugly. I have come to the conclusion that I’m not very crafty. I get an idea in my head of what I want, but instead of it turning out like something from Better Homes and Gardens, it looks more like something from the arts and craft table at the psychiatric ward – who am I kidding, it’s never that good. I don’t know how much time I spent on it, sewing those beads onto cut up pieces of old leather shoe, but I started somewhere near the end of The Biggest Loser, right through Please Marry My Boy, and stopped somewhere in the middle of Q&A – Joe Hockey annoying me so much I could have poked him in the eye with my needle and thread…
And so concludes the Adventures of Jet and the Tale of the Ugly Key Ring. Tune in next week for another story probably completely unrelated to this one. Good day, and always be watching the skis…I mean skies.