A Gearhead Trapped in a Skirt Suit

I'm posting a throw-back this week since I've been discussing cars with my friends lately. I drive a retro-looking Mustang and I love it. It's fast, it's cute, and part of me just has to buck convention and everyone else in D.C. seems to drive BMWs or Audis, so dang it - I'm sticking to the Ford muscle car in protest.

Sure, it doesn't look as "mature," or "professional" as something that blends in, but I've never been good at trying to blend in - as evidenced by my choice of a first car: A 1967 Camaro.

Below is from a post I originally wrote in 2011 about that car. Let your inner teenage boy out and enjoy.

The Commode
I realized that I haven’t written about my first car, the Most Awesome Car In The World – a 1967 Chevy Camaro.

Fact you should know: I may be a 30-something female, but part of me is a 12 year-old redneck boy. And while I do love a good spa day or fantastic heels, I also enjoy things like four-wheeling, playing in mud…and muscle cars.

And I was trying to think if I have any good stories to tell about my time with The Commode. (My cousin nicknamed it that for no apparent reason except for the fact that we lived in Tennessee and lots of things have nicknames for no apparent reason. In fact, I know several people, some are relatives, who I don’t actually know their real names. It’s a thing we do. Don’t judge.)

And there were definitely fun quirks about that car, like even though it was a ’67, it had a remote controlled CD player.

And a BAG. PHONE.

Do you even know what that is?? That is like the FIRST CELL PHONE EVER. It was actually just a car phone, meaning it can't leave the car because the equipment for it is in a bag, attached to the cigarette lighter. Before everyone and their child had a cell phone, I had a phone IN MY CAR people. I was the bomb. Not really, because I was only allowed to use it if I got lost on Tennessee backroads (which I did) or ran out of gas….which I did, and that is what I’ll tell you about in a second.

But a couple quick separate stories first. So, the redneck boy in me liked to race other boys in their cars. So I have different stories from doing that, like when my friend Mark took off beside me in his truck, which had a tool box in the bed that you open up in separate places using latches on either side. I start to race him and in the process somehow those latches released themselves and I remember seeing his tool box open up like a pair of wings behind the cab of his truck, forcing him to stop. It made my pom-pom twirling teenage girl side giggle. (And made my car-loving redneck boy side feel smug, because I won the race, default or not.)

Or I’d see my friend James in my rear-view mirror in his 454 (for you non-redneck boys: that is a Fast. Truck.), while driving my neighbor to school, and I’d slam my pedal down on the floor, scaring my neighbor senseless because he had not seen James coming up behind us and probably thought I was having a stroke.

And slamming my pedal to the floor wasn’t always such a great idea, as I embarrassingly learned while attempting to race yet another boy in the parking lot at the public pool. I started from a dead stop and I slammed the pedal all the way down…

which flooded the engine.

So I have to restart my car and I become the girl who “greenhorned an automatic.” (Because greenhorning is a term sometimes used for people who can’t drive manual transmissions, they just kill the engine while trying to get the car moving. Except my car was not manual: I just apparently couldn’t drive at all.)

And I mentioned that the car had funny inconsistencies like being old, yet having a CD player and air conditioning. And it also had power steering, which my dad added because manual steering is hard to turn with. And if you have a lot of turns, it can make a girl sweat on the way to high school - and HELLO! I can't be all sweaty when I arrive at school, DAD! (see, I do have a strong Teenage Girl side as well.) So he got power steering installed, but not without its own quirks. So the funny little thing about that was that if you turned the steering wheel too far:

It cut the engine.

Not that I know that from experience or anything…

The car also had quirks like the headlight dimmer was a button on the floor you had to hit with your foot, and the gear shift didn’t have any writing on it to tell you what gear you were in, or if you were in Drive or Reverse, so you pretty much just had to feel those things in your soul.

And after I drove it for awhile, the gauges started acting up. And one day, the whole car started acting a little strange - sluggish, jolting a little. And I wondered if I needed to get gas so I pulled into a gas station. But then I look at my gauges and think “I can’t really tell if I need gas because I don’t trust the gauge – and since my car is acting weird, what if I turn it off and can’t get it started again??”

So I don’t turn off the ignition, I pull right back out of the gas station and onto the main street towards home, which is uphill-

And my car promptly dies in front of everyone. 

From lack of gas.

On a hill, a few feet from a gas station I just pulled out of. 

So, in the end, the stories I have of my first car are pretty much like all my other stories: they end with someone looking at me amused, shaking their head in disbelief.



(But sweet maria, I loved that car. She looked exactly like this:) 
*Swoon*

In Honor of the Baltimore Grand Prix

I sadly have to miss this year's Baltimore Grand Prix race because I'll be out of town this weekend. But in honor of the race, I'm reposting my original post
(here) about the race last year. Enjoy!

The Grand Prix of Confusion

This weekend I attended the Inaugural! Baltimore! Grand Prix!

The race itself was awesome. The whole getting there and getting back, however, was less than a smooth ride.

My friend J took me and I was put in charge of reading the directions from the website. And because the Grand Prix is a car race THROUGH the downtown of a city, they set up shuttle busses from satelite parking areas to get people to the race.

The directions were fine until the last task of "take the second right at Light Street."

We couldn't find a Light Street so ended up driving into an old Walmart shopping center where we saw a lot of cars parked, but no signs about why. Our directions said "the shuttle bus area will be clearly marked and there will be volunteers to help you."

i.e. "You'd have to be an IDIOT to miss this, it will be so obvious"

We see two young guys handing out flyers so we ask them. "Do you know where Light Street is? Or where we pick up the shuttles for the race?"

They hand us a $5 dollar off coupon for "Nick's Fish House" and tell us Light Street is across town.

Okaaay. This looks like a parking lot for something since there are cars PARKED ON GRASS everywhere, but we'll try this again. So we leave, drive around, make U-turns, finally find a lot that says it's for the race, and we pull in. And the guy asks for $20 bucks.

Huh? It's supposed to be free, this must not be the right lot. So we ask him where Light Street is.

He says it's across town.

So we nearly just pay the 20 bucks just so we can stop driving around but J and I are both of the "I'll walk 5 miles before I pay for parking" type so we decide we'll give it one more try before conceding.

So we head back to Walmart.

And get offered a coupon again.

But this time, we see shuttle busses and ask one of the drivers "do these take us to the rac..."

"Get on that one!"

We obey, and I start to show THAT driver my Grand Prix ticket and he waves me off with a "I don't need to see that."

So J and I take our seats, passing by rows of interesting looking people (some slumped over) and think "Ok! We're getting somewhere now!"

(...ooor we just jumped on a random bus that will take us Who Knows Where! Either way, it'll be an adventure, right?)

So we drive for a bit and the bus finally stops - and no one does anything. The driver doesn't say anything, the people don't move. Finally a lady yells "is this where we get off?" And the driver says yes. But still most of the bus doesn't move (particularly the slumped over ones). But whatever, J and I are getting off!

We look at our tickets which say Gate D. And there's a sign in front of us that says Gate C. So we figure that's close enough and start heading that way.

Our tickets were to get us into the "Infield", which is the large area of downtown that is in the middle of the course the cars are running around all day. And we can HEAR race cars, but can't SEE them yet, so we walk around trying to get "in" and No One Can Help Us. We ask no less than 5 different people how we just get IN, and we are pointed to a different place each time. We finally realize we have to go in a building, up escalators in a mall, and over a pedestrian bridge to finally get "in" the infield. (which is outside).

And after waiting in line, we finally get on the bridge and see a line of complaining people being held up by metro cops, going the other way. So J and I keep going our direction, and now we wonder "after all this to get in, are we not allowed to get OUT??" and that's when I hear a volunteer tell someone that the bridge isn't built to hold all the people that are currently trying to use it.

Oh neat! Good planning, Baltimore!

Needless to say, J and I picked up the pace.

Once we finally got IN, we relaxed a little, bought lemonade, and tried not to worry about how we were later going to have to get OUT. Whatever! We are here now! Onto the cars!

We stake out ground right in front of the start line and realize we are allowed to go down on the track to meet the drivers. So of course I have to take photos. And I really know nothing about this sport. But I get a photo with a car anyway. But that's not enough. I need one with a driver. So we find a guy who is half wearing a race jumpsuit thing, so I pounce.

Me: Can I take a photo with you?
Him: Oh, I'm not the driver
Me: Can you pretend to be?

So here's Fake Driver:

(Then I found a REAL driver right as the race organizers were pushing us off the track and I pounce on him too. So here is Real Driver:)

So then J and I take our place outside the protective fence and the cars start up and take off.

And here's where I black out from happiness because those cars are LOUD and FAST and I have a ridiculous half-mouth-open, half-goofy-grin expression on my face for the next few laps.

And I'm not alone. The people around me have similar expressions and it's funny how Mutual Excitement! makes everyone feel like we all know each other. So the little guy standing in front of J and I turns to look at us like "Do you see that man!!! Do you see that!!" Except we can't actually understand him, he's just excitedly mumbling and HITTING J repeatedly.

So I'm still gazing in awe at the cars, and J's trying to pry this man off of him, and the lady next to me feels she needs to let me know which car she loves the most, and the man next to her is yelling "oh he has that WIIIDE open, that is WIIIIDE open!!!"

So that's the little scene of our spectator group. I then attempt to actually photograph the cars. But did I mention they are FAST? Here is what I ended up taking like 6 photos of:

Yep. You can't actually see a car in the photo at all.
I eventually got a little better at it:

And seriously, besides the poor logistics (and the whole possible bridge collapse thing) this was a fantastic event. And we stayed for hours before finally heading back home....

...then we realize: How do we GET back home?

By now, we've wandered around the "infield" so much we don't know how to get back to where the bus dropped us off. So I remember we were near Gate C and we look at the map-

And there is no Gate C.

So we see a Gate A, and head for that. Eh, it'll lead OUT somewhere, right?

We ask YET ANOTHER PERSON to help us and after a long process, we finally find random busses picking people up in a parking lot.

So we start to get on one and I realize -- these are City busses. Not so much Free Shuttles. And I have no idea where they are going, since I don't live in Baltimore.

So I'm trying to explain things to the driver, who is giving me the "Blink....Blink...." face like he has no clue what I'm saying and thankfully two guys FROM NEW JERSEY that are sitting on the bus tell us they know exactly what we are saying, they are going to the same place, and to just get on.

So we all bond, talking about how poorly organized this whole thing was and how we all got lost getting into the event, and the bus starts driving into a part of town J and I have not seen.

But the Jersey guys are adamant and they assure us "it's fine, he's going to drop us off at the corner, then we walk to another corner and get on another bus..."

Oh dear. But since J and I don't have a better plan, we follow along. And guess where the random corner in this random part of town is that the bus drops us off at?

Light Street.

So we've now come full-circle in our frustration. And we head to this elusive Other Bus --

And we walk RIGHT INTO THE ORIGINAL PLACE THE SHUTTLES DROPPED US OFF AT EARLIER AT NON-EXISTENT GATE C.

No freaking way! We really just took a bus across town...to just get around the infield. Sigh.

Nonetheless, surely these HAVE to take us back to our cars, right? And we see a sign that says "Port Covington".

What tha? We aren't trying to go to A PORT, we are trying to go to the street -that isn't Light Street- where the old Walmart -AND OUR CAR- is!

But once again, J and I have no other plan. So we hop on.

And lo and behold, we DO end up back at the Walmart -- which we realize is part of the "Port Covington Shopping Center." Ah, nothing like labeling things in a way WE COULD UNDERSTAND, like, I don't know, "Shuttle Parking Lot A"??

And as the bus is driving, we pass ...."Nick's Fish House".

Ha! We really have come full-circle.

So we take our coupons and eat at that darn fish house and happily finish out our day of confusion.

No Place For A Pony

This past Saturday, I rolled out of bed, headed out the door to meet friends for brunch, walked into my parking garage and found:

My Mustang had been stolen.

At least that’s what I thought had happened. Turns out, I was towed. Which is a story for another day (when I’m supposed to be doing homework but I procrastinate and blog instead, which is how this blog gets written most of the time) but until then, I thought I’d reshare why my brain went immediately to theft for those of you who missed the original post here.

See below. And feel free to share in the comments if you’ve ever had anything stolen – would be nice to know I’m not the only one who has this kind of “luck”….

Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Mustang Sally

You all may have read the account HERE of the time I reported my Mustang ("Sally", of course. She looked similar to this:)

stolen after forgetting I had driven it to the gym. But that wasn't the last time I'd report that car stolen.

Many of you know that I miraculously landed my first job out of college at The White House. Trust me, this was God's doing, because I actually had to ask someone who Dick Cheney was when he walked past me shortly after I got to DC. I was THAT oblivious about politics and this career path literally fell in my lap in spite of myself. Anyway, during my 2nd week on my job - where I'm trying desperately to act smart and capable - my car gets stolen from Union Station. And the joys do not end there.
I'll back up to when I parked to begin with. I was awaiting my official parking pass to use the garage at work, so I parked at Union Station and took the metro. That morning, as I parked next to BMWs and Mercedes, I looked at my steering wheel "Club" and thought, "I'm being paranoid. Who is going to pick the Ford to steal?" and I put the Club in my trunk.... When I got back that evening, my car was gone.

And the police and insurance company gave me no hope of recovering it since they believed it'd be sold to a chop shop immediately, so I got a rental car through my insurance. By then, I could use the garage at work - which is valet. So you drive down into the garage, then just exit your car with the key in it and the (mean!) garage attendant parks it for you. Easy enough! I jump out and walk across the street to my office, get through Secret Service, up the elevator, to my desk...where my phone is blinking.

And on the voicemail, is an IRATE message from the garage attendant YELLING something difficult to understand. But I hear "key in the car" and I hear "you locked the doors"....

So I scurry back over to find a LINE of White House staffer cars behind mine who can't get in the garage, and I have to face Mean -Now Livid- Garage Man, and call a locksmith.

And you know what is easier to break into than my generic rental car? ABSOLUTELY EVERY OTHER CAR IN THE WORLD. I can't even remember the model, it was something akin to a Ford Probe, and the locksmith is DUMBFOUNDED. He CAN NOT break into this bad boy and he even tells me how he's had no problems with high-end vehicles, how there are certain points in a car you can compromise, but nope! Not this one! This one has thought of EVERYTHING and you can not break in.

So he breaks the door handle to finally help me. On. My. Rental.

And at this point, I'm feeling so embarrassed/frightened that I would've smashed the window and slid in Dukes of Hazzard style if it would get Garage Man to stop glaring at me. So I pay the guy. And walk back to my office.

And since I'm still trying to put on a charade of dependability, I begin to brief my boss on the day's tasks. And she stops me. "What's wrong with you? You've broken out in hives."

I didn't even know I COULD break into hives, but apparently red splotches had creeped up my neck towards my face as I'm trying to suppress the stress of the morning.

And I burst into tears and explain the whole thing.

Thankfully, my boss was a very cool lady and everything worked out. My dad came to help me finagle the handle back on my rental before returning it and my insurance settled with me for a good amount and I bought another Mustang.

Then they found my old one.

Apparently, punk teens had just taken it for a joy ride and abandoned it in an alley in DC. I was even able to go to the impound lot and recover what belongings (which is another story for later) they hadn't taken with them. But guess what they did take?

My Club.

Oh sweet irony.....

Drivin' While Getting Shot At

...or chased, or side swiped.....

After the morning of shooting things (including people...woopsie!) our team moved onto the "Extreme Driving" portion of our day.

We went through different stations, jumping into various forms of barely still-running cars that had been beaten to within inches of their lives. Our first station involved us driving basically around a square, on a narrow path in between barracades. We did this until another car at the other end of our winding "street" took off after us in a game of chicken, angrily honking its horn at us while we fumble to get our car in reverse and back out around all the corners and spin around at the end and get away from the other car.

First of all, that other car looked gnarly:

which added to the drama. But I'm happy to report I successfully backed out of the barracades.

I can not say that for several others doing this course. People got hit by the other car, people accidentally got turned sideways in between the barricades, and one guy freaked out and somehow backed up onto the barricade.

So I was feeling pretty good as we moved on to: J Turns.

J turns are super fun but a little startling at first. Especially when it's just me and Angie alone in the car trying to hear our instructor on the radio tell us what to do. Which is basically: Floor it in reverse, slam your steering wheel to the left, sling your car in a 180 while putting it in Drive, then step on the gas again to keep going forward.

So we had some mishaps, like forgetting the whole "put it in Drive" part or accidentally killing our engine mid-sling-around, but overall we did well. And much more giggling ensued, which I'm sure our hardened former military instructors just loved....

After J Turns, we travel to the next station where we jump in even worse shape cars and proceed to spin each other out.

We got in my car -- and the brakes had stopped working. We used it anyway.

As I'm driving, the instructor is asking me what my favorite cartoon is, trying to keep me distracted while another car - also driven by someone who had no idea what they were doing - comes up, cuts into my rear fender, and spins us out.

It was actually pretty fun. Especially when it was my turn to hit the other car.

I get done knocking the other car off the road and my instructor starts to say "ok, just turn Right here and..."

but I've already turned Left. And we have no brakes.

So he stammers "...or a series of left turns..." as I giggle apologetically.

We finally rolled to a stop and I get in the backseat so my teammate can drive, and I proceed to enjoy being flung around while we get spun out again.

Then I realize I had forgotten to put my seatbelt on. Awesome. We are forced to wear helmets, our car has no brakes, and I don't even think to buckle my seatbelt.

When I get back to the side lines, Angie admits that her helmet flew off during their run. Clearly she and I are just made for this stuff.....

We move on to the final station which is: learning how to ram through another car and keep going.

I now want this station in my backyard to play with after every single one of my work days. Best stress reliever EVER.

You get in a car - with your partner in the passenger side - and a guy comes up to your partner's window and pulls a gun and you are supposed to floor it, drive through the car in front of you, and get to safety.

So I'm sitting there ready. And the guy pulls the gun on Angie.

Angie: "AAAAAAAHH! GO GO GO!" I floor it.

...and the car sits there, revving the engine.

I look at Angie, look at the guy with the gun, and now me and Angie are both yelling.

"AAAAAH!!"

And I can see that I do actually have it in drive- but yet it just sits there.

Finally the guy "holding us up" has to break character and get the decrepit car to realize what gear its in, and I barrel through the other car, stop, and begin to open the door to get out -

and the inside of the door falls off.

Sweet! I may have had a slow start, but I ruined part of a car! Yes!

We watch the rest of the group go, enjoying each time they barrel through the dummy car. And everyone is choosing to ram the back of the dummy car. Everyone until Grandma.

So I haven't mentioned that there's a grandmother doing this course with us who has more testosterone than the boys on our team. She kept referencing the different ways she'd like to physcially abuse her exes to the point where Angie and I just tried to stay away from her.

Well Grandma gets in the car and hits the FRONT of the dummy car, which we all applaud cuz none of us chose that route -- and we all quickly realize why we didn't choose that route.

By driving at the angle it takes to hit the front of the car, you inevitably head towards a line of other cars just off to the side of the course, minding their own business.

So now Granny drives through the first car, and ricochets off the line of cars - and just keeps going. Doesn't even let off the gas.

Granny just totally schooled us.

Even so, we all feel pretty cool now knowing how to do these different manuevers. So at the end of the day, Angie and I confidently jump back in my Mustang and start to head home.

And we promptly get lost.

Still within the training grounds.

And we end up accidentally driving right up onto one of shooting ranges.

Yeah. So...maybe we won't quit our jobs just yet to become Navy Seals.

But what a fun experience.....

There's a video that someone else did that shows some of the experience here:

Why I Should Just Take The Bus

As you know, I'm a car girl. And that, coupled with the fact that I get motion sickness on the D.C. Metro trains, means I try to drive everywhere. And in D.C., that causes many issues:

1. There's no parking

2. If there is parking, it has a meter and you get like 26 seconds per quarter so unless you have recently robbed a bank in all quarters, you probably don't have enough to park for more than 5 minutes.

3. Driving in D.C. is scary because the streets are laid out weird, and you are constantly dodging confused tourists, rude taxi drivers, random motorcades or road blocks, and cyclists. I feel like I'm constantly in a real life version of "Paperboy"... (that is an old Nintendo game if you are too young to get that reference.) And then there are -

The Signs.

Here is what you might expect to need to read before turning down a street in D.C.:

-This is a One-Way

-Unless it's Tuesday

-Then it's a Two-Way but you can't turn if it's before 9 a.m.

-And don't think about parking here if there's inclement weather

-Unless it's below freezing, then you can park for 5 minutes

-But you probably don't have enough quarters for 5 minutes so don't worry about it

-By the time you are to this sign, it is probably Wednesday which means this is once again a One-Way. Move along.

Here are actual signs in the city, but I've seen much crazier ones. You'll often see people trying to park just standing, staring up at signs for several minutes, trying to do the math to see if they can actually park there. It's way worse when you have to read paragraphs before knowing whether or not you can even TURN somewhere...(I sadly have not had a chance to take photos of those signs because I'm too busy trying to turn...)

And besides all that craziness, I feel like there are many things to keep up with on your car, at least if you are technically a Virginia resident like I am. Personal Property tax, state inspections (even if it's a BRAND NEW CAR...not that I'm bitter or anything...) and you need TWO license plates, which I did not know because I actually got away with keeping my old Tennessee plate on my car for much longer than I probably should've... and Tennessee isn't a Transportation-Nazi like Viriginia is. Yeah. I said it.

Funny story about license plates... first, I had never paid attention to my old Tenneessee plate before. My dad got his and mine at the same time and I just had to slap it on my car and pay him and be done with it. So one day when I was the passenger in my friend Ryan's car, we pulled up behind my car and he bursts out laughing and reads aloud what's on my plate. And to protect the innocent (aka My Parents, as you'll see below) I won't write the details here but it was something like :

"109 *slang term for something sexual*"

And then I burst out laughing because I had NEVER realized that before and was driving around all this time with that on my car. And even worse, since my dad bought both our plates, that meant my parents were driving around with "108 *slang term for something sexual*" on the back of their car. Sigh. Good thing they have pure minds and would not understand that anyway...

So when I finally got to the point where I could no longer run from the law and I had to bite the bullet and get VA plates, I made the annoying trip to the DMV and replaced my inappropriate TN tag with a VA one.

Then I immediately got two parking tickets in a row.

And I couldn't figure out why - I had a correct tag now, what was the deal!?

So then I finally read the fine print on the ticket and it says I need TWO plates. So now I'm annoyed because the DMV only gave me one, darn it! And they never mentioned anything about needing to buy two!

So I go back to the DMV, tell them they only gave me one plate and they owe me a new set of plates and they are confused but comply and give me a new set. 

And I'd had a stressful day anyway, and it's dark out and now I'm squatting on the ground with my screwdriver, taking off the one plate on the back --

and off drop TWO plates.

Oooooooohhhh.....

Apparently they were stuck together the first time and I obliviously screwed them both on the back of my car, leaving the front naked and thus incurring tickets.

At that point, I was so tired I just started laughing and kept the two new plates.

After that I had to GET HOLES PUNCHED into the front of my car so I could even HANG the stupid tag on it, but I've lived in compliance with VA law ever since.

At least, as far as license plates go :)

The Commode

Another car story. My friend Adrian just reminded me that I haven’t written about my FIRST car, the Most Awesome Car In The World – a 1967 Chevy Camaro.

Fact you should know: I may be a 30-something female, but part of me is a 12 year old redneck boy. And while I do love a good spa day and fantastic shoes, I also enjoy things like four-wheeling, playing in mud…and Muscle Cars.

And I was trying to think if I have any good stories to tell about my time with The Commode. (My cousin nick-named it that for no apparent reason except for the fact that we lived in Tennessee and lots of things have nick-names for no apparent reason. In fact, I know several people, some are relatives, who I don’t actually know their real names. It’s a thing we do. Don’t judge.)

And there were definitely fun quirks about that car, like even though it was a ’67, it had a remote control changeable CD player.

And a BAG. PHONE.

Do you even know what that is?? That is like the FIRST CELL PHONE EVER. It was actually just a CAR PHONE, meaning, it can't leave the car because the equipment for it is in a bag, attached to the cigarette lighter. Before everyone and their child had a cell phone, I had a phone IN MY CAR people. I was the bomb. Not really, because I was only allowed to use it if I got lost on Tennessee backroads (which I did) or ran out of gas….which I DID, and THAT is what I’ll tell you about in a second.

But a couple quick separate stories first. So, the redneck boy in me liked to race other boys in THEIR cars and trucks. So I have different stories of like when my friend Mark took off beside me in his truck, which had a tool box in the bed that you open up in separate places using latches on either side. So as I’m leaving Mark in my dust, you could see those latches release themselves and his tool box open up like wings behind his cab. It made me laugh. And feel superior when he had to stop then.

Or I’d see my friend James in my rearview mirror in his 454 (for you non-redneck boys, that is a Fast Truck), while driving my neighbor to school, and I’d SLAM my pedal down on the floor, scaring my neighbor SENSELESS because he had NOT seen James coming up behind us.

And slamming my pedal to the floor isn’t always such a great idea, as I embarrasingly learned while attempting to race YET ANOTHER BOY in the parking lot at the public pool. And I’m starting from a dead stop. And I slam the pedal all the way down…

which floods the engine.

So I have to restart my car and I become the girl who “Green-horned an automatic” because green-horning is the term used for people who can’t drive stick-shifts, they just end up killing the engine while trying to get the car moving. And my car is not a stick-shift. I just apparently can’t drive at all.

And I mentioned that the car had funny inconsistencies like being old, yet having a cd player and air conditioning (that the previous owner had added). And it also had power steering, but my dad added that because Manual Steering is hard to turn with. And if you have a lot of turns, it can make a girl sweat on the way to high school - and HELLO! I can't be all sweaty when I arrive at school, DAD! (see, I'm also very Girl as well...) – so he got power steering installed. As well as it could be on a car that old. So the funny little thing about THAT was, if you turned the wheel too far:

It cut the engine.

Not that I know that from experience or anything…

But you also had to hit a button on the floor with your foot to dim or bright the headlights, which was fun, and the shifter didn’t have the usual P, R, D or whatever else the normal things are to tell you what you are shifting into. It had nothing. So you just had to KNOW what you were shifting into.

And after I drove it for awhile, the gauges started acting up. And one day, the whole car started acting a little strange, sluggish, jolting a little. And I wondered if I needed to get gas so I pulled into a gas station. But then I look at my gauges and think “I can’t really tell if I need gas because I don’t trust the gauge – and since my car is acting weird, what if I turn it off and can’t get it started again??”

So I don’t turn off the ignition, I pull right back out of the gas station and onto the main street towards home, which is uphill-

And my car promptly dies. From lack of gas. On a hill, a few feet from a gas station I JUST PULLED OUT OF.

So, in the end, the stories I have of my muscle car are pretty much like all my other stories: they end with someone looking at me amused, shaking their head in disbelief.

But man I loved that car. She looked exactly like this: Enjoy. :)

More Mustang Fun

I'll take a break from the dating stories for a bit before men stop going out with me out of fear they'll be my new material. AKA before I become the Taylor Swift Of Blogging.

And we'll go back to Car Stories! Because I have a lot of those too.

I love cars, and I love to drive, and I pride myself on navigating city traffic aggressively...defensively. But I will admit that my Goldfish Poodledom takes over from time to time and I get distracted and have mishaps. One such incident happened a few years ago.

I was heading to Capitol Hill with two friends - Rod, the other Goldfish Poodle, and Brian, my Couch Dweller,

Couch Dweller: (/kouCH/dwel'er): One who sleeps on your couch and pays you some money each month, benefitting both parties because DC housing is so expensive it necessitates cramming people into apartments like clown cars. [We've all had one, or been one, at some point.]


and we are all in the middle of discussing where we are going when one of the boys tells me to just turn left. And in my distracted state, I immediately obeyed and turned left.

From the inside lane of the street.

Into a taxi cab on my left.

And I never realized before that there is some sort of Taxi Mafia in this city but I can't even tell you how many other cabs stopped to "make sure everything was ok". I guess they thought I would try to blame him for the accident? I pictured myself forever shunned, unable to get a cab to stop for me ever again because They Would Know I was That Girl. In any case, it was obviously my fault and thankfully did little damage to his car. My car, on the other hand, now had half the bumper hanging off.

So we settle things with the taxi driver and he leaves, and me and the boys are trying to figure out how to keep driving to our destination. And because this is DC and nothing is unusual, we see what looks like a t-shirt randomly laying on the sidewalk with no owner.

So now the boys are TYING my bumper back on with a T-SHIRT and we continue with our night. The next day, I drive to work.

At the White House.

The place where I embarrased myself HERE when I locked my keys in the car and another time when I accidentally hit the giant concrete barrier thing you are to wait in front of while a dog sniffs your car for explosives. The barrier thing sinks into the ground after the check is over -- I didn't wait long enough and basically high-centered my car on it, to the AMAZEMENT of Secret Service...

So NOW I drive in with my front bumper TIED ON WITH A T-SHIRT. And I'm SURE these guys are like "seriously, how did this girl get a job here..." and they feel sorry for me and offer to help:

by RIPPING my bumper completely off and shoving it in my backseat.

So I spent the next day or so driving around with a torn-up front end and a bumper in my back seat until I was able to get it fixed.

That poor car went through a lot more before I finally traded it in, including a denting in the roof from when I didn't realize a garage door wasn't ALL the way up... and many dents from where I participated in one of DC drivers' favorite pastimes: "Parking By Braille" (aka "tapping" the cars around you until you finally fit in a spot.)

I'm on my fourth car now and trying to do a better job of taking care of it but if you see me on the road, you might want to steer clear, just in case.

Mustang Sally

You all may have read the account of the time I reported my Mustang ("Sally", of course. She looked similar to this:)

stolen after forgetting I had driven it to the gym. But that wasn't the last time I'd report that car stolen.

Many of you know that I miraculously landed my first job out of college at The White House. Trust me, this was God's doing, because I actually had to ask someone who Dick Cheney was when he walked past me shortly after I got to DC. I was THAT oblivious about politics and this career path literally fell in my lap in spite of myself. Anyway, during my 2nd week on my job - where I'm trying desperately to act smart and capable - my car gets stolen from Union Station. And the joys do not end there.

I'll back up to when I parked to begin with. I was awaiting my official parking pass to use the garage at work, so I parked at Union Station and took the metro. That morning, as I parked next to BMWs and Mercedes, I looked at my steering wheel "Club" and thought, "I'm being paranoid. Who is going to pick the Ford to steal?" and I put the Club in my trunk.... When I got back that evening, my car was gone.

And the police and insurance company gave me no hope of recovering it since they believed it'd be sold to a chop shop immediately, so I got a rental car through my insurance. By then, I could use the garage at work - which is valet. So you drive down into the garage, then just exit your car with the key in it and the (mean!) garage attendant parks it for you. Easy enough! I jump out and walk across the street to my office, get through Secret Service, up the elevator, to my desk...where my phone is blinking.

And on the voicemail, is an IRATE message from the garage attendant YELLING something difficult to understand. But I hear "key in the car" and I hear "you locked the doors"....

So I scurry back over to find a LINE of White House staffer cars behind mine who can't get in the garage, and I have to face Mean -Now Livid- Garage Man, and call a locksmith.

And you know what is easier to break into than my generic rental car? ABSOLUTELY EVERY OTHER CAR IN THE WORLD. I can't even remember the model, it was something akin to a Ford Probe, and the locksmith is DUMBFOUNDED. He CAN NOT break into this bad boy and he even tells me how he's had no problems with high-end vehicles, how there are certain points in a car you can compromise, but nope! Not this one! This one has thought of EVERYTHING and you can not break in.

So he breaks the door handle to finally help me. On. My. Rental.

And at this point, I'm feeling so embarrassed/frightened that I would've smashed the window and slid in Dukes of Hazzard style if it would get Garage Man to stop glaring at me. So I pay the guy. And walk back to my office.

And since I'm still trying to put on a charade of dependability, I begin to brief my boss on the day's tasks. And she stops me. "What's wrong with you? You've broken out in hives."

I didn't even know I COULD break into hives, but apparently red splotches had creeped up my neck towards my face as I'm trying to suppress the stress of the morning.

And I burst into tears and explain the whole thing.

Thankfully, my boss was a very cool lady and everything worked out. My dad came to help me finagle the handle back on my rental before returning it and my insurance settled with me for a good amount and I bought another Mustang.

Then they found my old one.

Apparently, punk teens had just taken it for a joy ride and abandoned it in an alley in DC. I was even able to go to the impound lot and recover what belongings (which is another story for later) they hadn't taken with them. But guess what they did take?

My Club.

Oh sweet irony.....