All my life I've had a passionate love affair with sports cars. People say being in love is temporary insanity; I wear a size six straitjacket.
My first affair was with Rex, a red English Ford. Rex was a Singer Sewing Machine with wheels, but I was smitten by Britain. Anglophenia pulled at my heartstrings both then and now. It's why I spend my Sunday nights at Downton Abbey.
Rex had a hot temper and when he blew his last gasket, my dad said, "The roads are crowded with the likes of him." It's how he found Ollie, a pea-green Oldsmobile Coupe. Years of transporting hooch gave Ollie a permanent scent: Eau de White Lightning.
I wanted to believe that Ollie was a sports car, not a coupe. He had two-doors and no back seat, but he wasn't the real deal; he was an Oldsmobile and he reeked.
One morning I discovered him gone and I couldn't understand why he'd left. Had he missed those days of hauling hooch till the revenuers put a cork in his job description? For whatever reason, Ollie fell off my personal wagon and never got back up to speed.
I went through several American "caffairs" after Ollie, each one mind-numbing and humdrum. No turn on at all.
There was Carl Chevy and then Frank Ford. Yawn. When Maximilian, a white Mercury convertible decked out in red leather showed up, he peaked my interest in domesticity.
Max was a handsome hunk of engineering but I had to share him with my husband. Even while I was pregnant, Max tootled me around town with his top down. He did this until my expanding tummy could no longer fit under the steering wheel.
Max left me, and after that I went through cars like Sherman through Atlanta on the Perimeter hoping to find the perfect CarFax.
Stanley Station Wagon was the quintessential dog and kid schlepper, but he was so boring that he couldn't get off cruise control. Thank goodness I dumped him before we coasted into Comatose City.
Conrad Comet entered my life the year compacts came of age. Connie gave good gas mileage but was no more a sports car than Freddie Falcon who was monotonous as an unpainted picket fence.
When they all had taken off for that universal junkyard in the sky, my first real sports car, Francisco Fiat, aka Fix It Again Toni, came into my life. Francisco spent more time with Toni than with me, however, so it was no surprise when Frankie and Toni became sweethearts. He was my mancar but he done me wrong.
Nick Nissan Z, was a sporty dude with a tiger in his tank, but way too masculine for this Southern Belle. I tried to make it last but eventually Nick and his mileage roared like a dragon into Blue Book history.
Miso Miata was a good sport. He showed up with the ability to make me laugh, but with one too many glitches. Even a blonde knows that glitches, like jokes, ain't funny after the third one. When Miso began to bomb more often than a drunk drone on high test, I shuffled him off to Buffalo.
At long last my dream, the fantasy car for which I had always longed, came home to Mama. Jacques Jaguar, a carnival red convertible stole my heart. We were happy for a very long time and unlike the others, he gave me no grief. I mourned him when we had to part, but he was old and cranky and could no longer mask his rattling bones. It was time. Fifteen in car years is ninety in dog years.
My true love was gone forever, but when fate plopped the cherry of all cherries on the front seat of my life, Jacques Jaguar was forced to take a back seat.
Wolfgang, a silver Porsche convertible, has never clashed with my golden years. He hugs me with his heavy body each time I turn his motor on. Woofie glides down my road of life indifferent to detours, potholes and roadblocks. His dashboard demeanor is more German than English but do I care?
Ach, Woofie & Ich liebe Dich.