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Automotive Love
The official word on Mina has arrived: she is, indeed, toast.
Apparently, the floor of my trunk is all buckled and my exhaust is shot
and there's nasty structural damage. For a car that's model year 1990,
well....
I must admit, I am somewhat distraught. I named my little baby after I'd
seen Winona Ryder-- she of the recently questionable judgement-- in
Coppola's "Dracula." My previous car, an ill-fated, ill-mannered burgundy
Subaru wagon, had been named "Lucy," in a last minute attempt to
anthropomorphise recalcitrant metal into something with which I could
reason. My more sober, silver-grey Mina was ushered into my life shortly
thereafter. "Cos Lucy died," I told everyone, "but Mina LIVED."
Until now. Alas.
My last link to those wild and sometimes unutterably stupid days in
Florida; commuting from St. Pete to Atlanta for the Georgia Ren Faire;
getting tackled into the back seat by Bill when his girlfriend wasn't
around (lost points in the slut test for that whole fiasco), driving my
fanged friend Patrick to Ohio just to spend three days being "booth bait"
while he devoured any nubile young female who came athwart his bow; the
pitiful ook on my poor dog's face when I yelled at her for throwing up
YET AGAIN on the trip back down 95 from Philly to Florida; rerunning my
Over the Rhine tapes incessantly for Lars to not-so-subtly brainwash him
so we'd have something non-faire in common, but then switching the radio
off entirely when Stevie Nicks came on singing "Silver Springs" with its
uncomfortable lyrics; filling the back window ledge with all the flowers
I got as a rose girl on every faire site; all the times I had to duck
into, out of, or behind the car to get into or out of my-- or someone
else's!-- costume....
I'll miss my little Mina. Sniff.
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