SO, here is my first blog post, woot! As mentioned before, I love to write. Here is something very recent I wrote, only a second draft, about my car. I have a 1994 Mercury Topaz. It is Awesome. Words cannot describe, but I tried anyway. Enjoy!
*PS I will change the pic soon & also post one of the Tospaz.
“Ode to the Tospaz”
Sara Astley
Scooting along with the heavy Rochester traffic, I take a break from my personal-horrific Steve Perry impression to glance around at the surrounding vehicles and their passengers. The pause in my car-karaoke changes to a screeching halt. “Belieeeeevinggggg……..” dies in my throat as my face flushes fuchsia as a result of the shocked-and-appalled looks I receive from the other drivers. The multiples of turned-up noses, wrinkled foreheads and cold stares has my hand looking for the electronic button to your 15-year-old window when I suddenly take-in that it’s 88 degrees outside. 88 degrees and no one else else’s windows are down. That’s because their infant cars are born equipped with air-conditioning. My embarrassed flush turns into an offended one as I pat your corroded steering wheel and coo to you as if you were my pet.
So maybe you do not have working A/C. Maybe you always have to let me know that I need to service my engine soon. That I should gas up at half-tank. That I have no clue what your miles really are because your odometer stopped working three years ago. Your left turn signal operates at random. The hairline crack in your windshield has spawned children, there was until recently cardboard covering holes in your floorboards. You hate your battery. You tell me this by trying to eat it, you think locks are for BMW’s, and you prefer to be held together with hangers and soup cans.
I know this because you tell me. You tell me not to spend my precious money to fix you, because when I do repair even the most minor thing, you respond to me by breaking something else. Because who needs working brakes when the slightest push on the pedal produces the loudest, screechiest dying-animal sound imaginable and any nearby driver floors it out of your way. Even when your engine makes a noise not unlike a death-rattle, and even when you leave little “presents” on my friends and families driveways by piddling transmission fluid and oil in neat little droplets.
Who needs an IPOD or a CD player when a cassette player is antique? Or a sparkly new paint job when your hood has that classic “faded” look? Or a car-alarm to search for you in a crowded lot when your Eeyore antenna and bumper stickers is a beacon, standing out from the others like the Holy Grail?
We pitter-patter along until we get to our destination. I park, gather up my belongings, and turn off your engine. Your headlights dim slowly, like a child fighting off sleep. I exit through the door, half-choking on your seatbelt that slaps my face, and close the door safely behind me. I watch the other drivers turn behind them to click their hand remotes, locking up their cars behind them with barely a glance. I turn, to give you a grateful half-smile for the safe journey. Your seatbelt-tongue is hanging out the door at the bottom, like your sticking it out at the other cars as you snooze. I roll my eyes and head to class.
