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My love for muscle cars/vehicles is kept pretty much hidden.

Issue Date: Friday, Feb. 16, 2007

Let me tell y’all a little story about a car named Samantha. Well, it starts out with her anyway. You all know of her horrendous run in with the streetlight, no? No? Well, then here is the backstory.

Go on. I’ll wait.

Ok, so I left her with Charles at the dealership body shop area. And let me say this right off. Charles, God love him, is one charismatic old guy. He had sparkling personality and wit… so sweet that he would give you cavities.

Yeah, smell that fuckers? It’s sarcasm.

Charles was crotchety, caustic, used one word sentences and was so very, very old. I usually like the old part when it comes to men. But come on guy; give me a little compassion here. I shouldn’t be in your body shop. I am happily (ok, not so much with the happiness, but I wasn’t grudgingly) giving you the $250.00 deductible for the car to be repaired. I haven’t pushed you on time or specifics. Be nice.

He? Was not nice.

I turned Samantha over to him for the second time in a few weeks so he could complete the body work on her. And I ambled over to the rental car place, as I felt like I would be putting Charles out to ask for a ride. The dealership is a HUGE place.

I had made a reservation with Enterprise previously in the week and so I didn’t have any issues getting a rental. The one they gave me? Y’all. It was a Chrysler Aspen.

Now this may confuse you on why I am linking to this car as it seems to be a mild mannered SUV cross over type vehicle.

Eight words syllables for you. 5.7-liter HEMI® V8.

I caught a chirp turning left to get on an access road.

This may surprise some of you, but the Vroom in that vehicle made me a little tingly in my no no parts.

I have always loved animals, jewelry and make up (oh and shoes… can’t forget the shoes) and I talk about these loves freely. But my love for muscle cars/vehicles is kept pretty much hidden except from Mister and my father, neither of which care.

The love for fast cars goes back to when I was wee and my grandpa had an old Dodge step side truck with a massive engine in her. My grandmother had an old Chevelle coup that was beautiful. Ivory exterior with black accents and black leather bench seats inside. Lovely. I can remember standing on the backseat hanging over the front bench to be between my grandmother and my aunt.

me: Aunt Jean-y? Where are we going ?
Aunt Jean: Well, we’re going over to Royston* to visit Mr. Lamb.
me: Mr. Lamb?
Aunt Jean: Yes baby, Mr. Lamb, he has some upholstery that I want to take a look at.
Aunt Jean: … Why love?
me: Well…
Aunt Jean: Yes?
me: What else can he say other than “Baaaaaaaaaa”?

*Elberton, Anderson… whatever. Somewhere in North Georgia.

I was probably three. And it goes without saying, totally cute.

An old friend in high school had a Mach I and I loved the way that thing felt when he started her up. She was never all one color. Bondo in some places and red in others, her tiny little steering wheel belying her speed and power.

Oh, Lord… and that 1967 Camero SS from the movie Better Off Dead??? Come on.

My mother had a 1979 Buick Regal for many, many years. It had a silver exterior and a maroon interior. The interior had faded after almost a decade to a very unattractive purple and there was a lingering odor of spoiled orange juice that I had spilled on the floor board of the front passenger side when I was little. We were on one of the many runs for “someone’s had a baby, has had a death in the family, is getting married, has been in the hospital” food deliveries that my mother used to do, and still does. A corner was taken sharply and over went the orange juice, or whatever it was that I spilled.

The Buick had a V8 in her and would fly. She was the first car that I drove for any length of time. (The second was a 15 passenger Econoline van. Sexy.)

My sister had, as her first car, a little 1980 Ford Mustang, red, with a teeny little four banger engine in her. My sister has always been tough on vehicles and I didn’t take that into consideration when she; at 18; got a hand-me-down company car from my father to take to college. I was given a choice. My mother was getting a new car, her first new car… EVER… (a 1988 LaBaron Convertible, red with black top) and I was able to choose from the 1980 Mustang or the 1979 Buick Regal with the nasty orange juice smell and the faded maroon interior.

I took into account that the Mustang was a lot cooler than the Buick. I took into account that the Buick was an old person’s car. She had been dubbed the Gray Ghost and I figured that was definitely not as cool as the little red Mustang with the 4 cylinder engine in her that I could fill up for $5.00 and drive for two weeks. Sure the white vinyl seats in the Mustang were all cracked and the dash had a crack right down the middle of the center speaker. A Mustang was cooler, right?

I was completely incorrect. My father sold the Buick to a kid at our church and he happily drove the Gray Ghost away. She is still seen sometimes in my hometown and I yearn for her and her power. The Mustang? We had to replace parts of her engine and transmission FOUR TIMES. The starter? Two or three times. She fell apart on me so much that when it was my time to go to college? My father let me take her for one semester then demanded that I trade her for his then current company car, or one just like it. A four-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais.

Yes, it was still a red car. But it was a sedan. With a lousy 4 cylinder and four doors, like an old person’s car! I was so embarrassed.

Not quite as embarrassed as I was when my shitty Mustang would drop dead at a stop light and I would have to restart her, throw her in neutral and give her gas until the light turned green.

Yes babies, yes. I was very lucky to even have transportation when I was young. A lot of people didn’t have their own cars. I know this. And yes, crawl into my lap love and I will reminisce about what kind of traumatic experience for you it was to have to take public transportation or to beg rides off of friends. Yes, shhhh baby… it’s ok.

Back to me. It is all about me today. Okay, everyday. Your point?


I made a mistake. I should have taken the Buick. She was timeless. And I could have had the carpets redone, or torn out. Who cares if she had a purple interior? I ended up with a fucking purple car with the hoopty anyway, right?

Oooh… did I tell y’all about the time my ex-husband sold my truck out from under me when I went to see LuLu one weekend? Let me search the archives. Okay, the term Z-71 does not show up… so please, excuse me if I repeat myself. And feel free to point it out to me as well.

Not you people. Those of you who know me, really know me, have heard this story a gajillion times. Repeated with much venom and a lot of cursing. Y’all don’t have to tell me I am repeating myself to YOU… I know. This is why I will be so much fun when I get Alzheimer’s. Everyday I will tell you about the time I hit that cow. Oh, you’ve hear that story? Well, what about the time I hit that cow? I slept with the law? Oh, yes… that is a better story, but did I tell you I hit a cow… with my truck!?

Moving on.


Let me state for the record that I ended up LOVING that Olds Cutlass because it had four doors… more people could comfortably go on road trips. And AND… get out of the back seat faster when they had to puke. So, good times all around.

Back to the truck stealing ex-husband.

So, when X and I got married we sold off some stock and bought a truck outright. The truck was for me as he already had a half-ton red Chevy 4x4. It was my first new vehicle and I was totally in love with it. It was a 1995 Chevy, extended cab, Z-71, 4x4 that was emerald green with a taupe interior. She was classy. She was paid for. She was BIG. She let me get up and down that mud slip n’ slide that my (then)husband called a driveway.

I was so in love with this truck y’all. She was my first truck. TRUCK. She could tow shit. And run over things. There was enough room for travel and with my first job (X was totally not working) out of college, travel I did. I was gone for about 5 nights out of 7 those days and the truck and I made a great team.

One weekend R (my ex-step daughter) went to visit her momma so I made plans to go visit LuLu in Houston. We wanted to go out dancing, have a little fun, hang out with friends and forget about the world for awhile. I took X’s truck for some reason, I think he asked me to because he was going to need the extra room in the Z-71 for something. So, off I went.

LuLu and I had a blast. We partied, danced our asses clean off, laughed, joked and enjoyed each other’s company. When I got home I noticed that my truck wasn’t at the house. Nothing was at the house, but there was this tiny little green car at my in-laws’.

I stopped there because if I wasn’t home, you could bet that X was at his momma’s house.**

**This issue? We will cover in another entry all together.

I stopped and got out of X’s truck and went inside. X almost squealed, he was so excited. He started talking fast and all that I heard was “…in exchange for your truck…”. Wha? What is in exchange for my truck? Where is my big beautiful green truck? Where is it? It was paid for! PAID FOR. As in, no payments… only gas and maintenance. There was no good reason that I could fathom that my big truck would be gone, unless it was in a wreck.


No wreck.

Dumb ass had taken the truck into the dealership, asked them what they would pay him for it. They quoted $21K. He was all, “SOLD!” and then got me something to replace the truck.

That something was a two door Hyundai Scoupe. And oh how I wish I were kidding.

It was a shoe skate with an engine.

He put $3K down on the Scoupe, put the rest that was owed as payments and took the $18K in a cashier’s check.

I was told the $18K that was going to cover bills. I was told he sold my truck because the gas that was needed for my beautiful PAID FOR green truck was too excessive since I was traveling for my job. No need to add the words, “As the only fucking bread winner in the family!” right? I was told the truck was too expensive to maintain.

The $18,000? It was gone within two and a half months. Did I ever see where it went? No, no I did not.

Every time I think about this, I get madder and madder. I have really got to let this go. It has been over twelve years. But the more I think about how naïve, trusting, inexperienced and fucking stupid I was and how much my ex-husband took advantage of my kind and generous and trusting and STUPID nature I just want to punch him in the vagina.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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