It is a little known fact, but I have a 21 year old named Betty . . .

Before anyone has a coronary I’m talking about my car.  It’s a 1990 Buick LeSaber.  She’s doing well for her age, the odometer stopped working years ago so I’m guessing we’re pushing right at 325k miles.  Sure her front window has a crack all the way across and up and down; the air conditioning doesn’t work; the front windows don’t roll down; the speedometer doesn’t work; the gas gage doesn’t work; the gear indicator is broke; her vinyl top is cracked; the inside roof has lost it’s cloth cover; leaks oil like our government spends money; smokes at red lights; hole in the radiator; the interior lights won’t come on when the driver door is open; . . . other than that though she’s a good car.  The transmission works great, the drive-train seems solid, and she’s got a somewhat fresh coat of RustOleum covering the better part of her body.

I recently thought I had a chance at getting a newer car, you know, one with that new fanged technology called AC; alas it fell through.  While I was disappointed at the thought of sweating through another summer, I have to admit that deep down inside I’m glad Betty is in my life.  She’s old, beat up, scares me half the time when I drive her hoping her engine will get me home . . . but all in all I like the old girl.  To celebrate her 21st birthday I might just buy her some S.T.P.

Crazy talk, I know