My track record with cars is… abysmal seems too kind and mild of a word… Between the tender age of 16 and what I perceived to be the wise old age of 21, I drove and subsequently totaled 5, yes FIVE cars. In short… if you saw me coming and needed a little spare cash, you should probably find a way to be in my path because there was a damn good chance I was going to find a way to hit you.

Now before you think I’m making light of a situation that is, indeed, NOT FUNNY, let me assure you that (a) only one of these accidents occurred at a rate of speed to cause any significant injury, (b) I was the injured party (c) my damn shoulder STILL hurts when it rains and (d) the remaining cars were only totaled because my father had become wise to the fact that putting me behind the wheel of a car worth more than about $500 was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.

Additionally, I totaled three of those five cars in parking lots. Skills. I have them.

After Patrick and I got married, I found myself behind the wheel of something I never imagined I would see. A brand, spanking new car. A 2003 Volkswagen Pasaat that I loved beyond reason. She was beautiful, sleek, stylish and she was all mine. I affectionately dubbed her “Tiger Northshire” as I read somewhere that if you take the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on, that’s your drag name and to me, Tiger Northshire looked like a lovely young lady but she maybe had a little something extra under the hood.

For years, Patrick found himself in the fortunate position of having a wife who refused to consider a new car and would, in fact, stick her fingers in her ears and yell loudly when the topic was broached. I loved my German baby with all my heart and she was oh so very good to me.

Until she wasn’t.

Two weeks ago, as I was getting on the interstate to drive to work, she kind of… lagged? And then suddenly was sluggish and, if I’m being perfectly honest, not purring so much as wailing like a very unhappy feline. And on some level… I knew. I just knew. She had rolled over. I made it the rest of the way to work (oh shut up. it was like a mile and she was RUNNING), pulled into the parking lot and made my March of Sadness back to Patrick’s office.

“I fear she is done.”

A few days of research, diagnosis and tow trucks and it was determined that Tiger Northshire would live out her days frolicking with the other elderly German adult kittens on a farm in the country and I was going to have find a new damn car.

I was really, really sad until my sister pointed out to me that I’d finally had one live a long and happy life. Other than that one air conditioning unit I backed into (sorry Neena…) back when she was but a wee lass, she was injury free. Maybe I’m finally growing up? I’m 36 and, for the moment anyway, someone’s mother. I guess it’s finally time.

Oh yeah… I almost forgot… meet Ziggy Stardust…


ZS2 copy

I love her.