Musings by Mrs. Motorhead.
I have missed this annual event. This year there were 5 homes to tour and 2 gardens. The long lines and highly monitored spacing of people going through the homes (adherence to covid protocol) limited our viewing to just 2 homes and one garden.
Still, it was great.
The car show is a wonderful pairing. I imagined what it might be like to live in those homes in their glory days and walk out to these beautiful cars to….go on a date or go on a family picnic. The car owners, as always, were so nice.
There is a study, somewhere, that proves pranksters are soaking in serotonin.
Personally, I feel it is a collaborate activity that is more fun when other discrete, willing parties are enlisted to “support” the prank.
The most elaborate prank I did was in the early eighties with co-workers. It was more than an office whisper that one of the VP’s was a dirty, little ol’ man. He had slipped his hotel key into the hands of females at sales’ shows. The most recent incident was at the annual Christmas party where he either said something or did something to the Controllers’ wife. The Controller (a very nice man) was my boss’ boss in my first management job. I was working full time and finishing up my bachelor’s degree at night.
I did not attend said-Christmas party. People knew the head of Human Resources (which was then called Personnel) would be a useless advocate for the people. A few of us (the Maintenance man, the Controller, and my manager) conspired to play a prank on this tea biscuit-sized perv. Each week, the Maintenance man would take perv’s company car to get it detailed, gassed up, etc. I had a customized license plate holder made to say: “Convicted Sex Offender”. It cost $10 and 50% of it was funded by the Controller. The Maintenance man was sworn to secrecy and he returned the original license plate holder with the dealer’s name to me.
We (the collective accounting management team) could all see where perv parked from our office windows. We would start out our staff meetings laughing, especially when we saw perv walking into the office. Sometimes he would even wave at us.
Months went by and we had already forgotten about our prank. We had heard (through the grapevine) that perv’s wife discovered the license plate switcheroo on Halloween. The children would stop at their driveway and turn around instead of ringing the door bell. She said to perv, “There’s something in the driveway that’s scaring away the trick or treaters.” She thought it might be a dead animal or bird. She went out to inspect the driveway and (finally) saw the license plate holder. She was so angry she ripped the words off the plates with her perfectly manicured red acrylic nails.
Apparently, perv thought it was pretty funny. A few months later, I tendered my notice for a better opportunity. My next job required fewer hours, less responsibility, and an opportunity to learn IT in a bigger company. The job would provide more flexibility to finish up my degree.
On my last day, Perv’s administrative assistant said Perv wanted to do my exit interview. When he closed the door to his office, I was on high-alert. He was laying the groundwork for a counter-offer. While flattering, I had already made a commitment to my new employer and I was looking forward to the opportunity. Perv tried to push me onto the little couch as I thanked him and he was walking me out of the door. I screamed. He was grinning and laughing as I escaped. Before leaving the office, I was shook up but not intimidated. I stuck the original license plate holder to perv’s company car in an interoffice envelope as a way of letting me know: “Yeah, it was me.”
Two weeks after the pushing-onto-the-couch incident happened, I got enough nerve to report it to the head of HR. She looked shock but because I was no longer an employee, it gave her an “out” to ignore it. So much for upholding the office and girl code.
Years later I learned perv died of a brutal form of cancer. Sorry he suffered. Others also suffered. To what extent they were harassed, I will never know. I learned of his death from his admin. She left shortly after I did because she grew intolerant that her job required a type of silence that infected her insides.
The more recent and milder prank targeted Car Guy. He likes to keep his car free of dangling things on the rear view mirror and stickers. My daughter and I found a bright yellow sign that said “Honk if you Scrapbook” and used suction cups to adhere it to the rear windshield. It was placed so he couldn’t even see it from his rear view mirror. Because he washes his car weekly, he found it quickly. He laughed and wondered why people were honking at him.
Car Guy was giddy to attend Meguiar’s Detailing 101 class from 8am-3pm on a Saturday in nearby Irvine. He’s into technical details and that translates into many facets of his interests. I like seeing him happy and excited about his passions. He extends the same to my “hobbies”.
Cars have been his childhood passion. He’s been generous with his talents towards neighbors and others who’ve had questions about their cars. His expertise extends beyond cars. Anything that has a motor, an engine, mechanical parts or circuitry.
Once my friend Jen left her car at our place and we drove to the retreat in my car. While we were away, CG washed her car. That’s the kind of guy he is.
The Meguiar’s Saturday class was free. They served coffee, donuts, lunch, etc. They made it easy for people to join. Naturally, there is a marketing element but that seems only fair.
CG came home with many different polisher sponges and concoctions. Along with the accessories was knowledge he had gained about techniques, solutions for removing contaminants, defects and sealants. I remembered how he always got into the nooks and crannies of the Jaguar’s metal grill so it sparkled. Not a trace of wax or residue remained.
Whenever I’ve dealt with a stubborn substance stuck onto cookware, CG magically appears with a steel wool or solution to magically remove it. I just want to boil the heck out of it with baking soda and water or use Bartender’s Keeper. That latter product was introduced to me by my mother-in-law.
Consistent car maintenance is an extension of CG’s personality. He’s responsible, meticulous about detail, proactive about protecting assets, and concerned about the safety of drivers/passengers.
It is laughable that he married someone like me. I remember, before we were married, giving CG a ride in my MR2. The interior was black and grey cloth upholstery. It was covered with dog hair from my oversized basset hound, Clyde. CG filled the entire passenger side because he’s tall. Every point of his body came into contact with fur. Despite first fur-filled impressions, he still married me. My car has traces of spilled snacks–a fallen, hidden french fry. When I give a passenger a ride, I’m always having to shift things from the passenger seat to the trunk to make room. I throw things in the backseat like a catch-all—a sweater, a shopping bag, etc. The cup holders contain water bottles with varying levels of water consumption.
We accept each other unconditionally. Some of our best conversations and moments have happened in a car.
I’m amazed at how a car will zoom by and CG will recognize some unique aspect about it, including the car being posted for sale. He would make an amazing witness. He registers details faster than the time it would take anyone to pull out their camera phone to record a situation. He reminds me of Marissa Tomei’s character Mona Lisa Vito in the movie “My Cousin Vinny”. That scene where she testifies as an expert witness and delivers these lines —
I have ailed from motion sickness since childhood. Our Dad had to stop the car on road trips so I could take deep breaths and/or vomit. Our Mom kept a “Promise Can” in the car on those trips that I could heave into. Don’t confuse the word “promise” with a “promise ring”. The can was an empty ice cream container that served like an air sick bag. My siblings sandwiched me in the backseat so they could have the window seats, just in case. I sat with my feet resting on top of the drive shaft hump, in the middle of the back seat, being jostled between two disagreeable siblings. Family car trips in sedans don’t evoke happy memories.
I avoided roller coasters, rocking boats and fast rides.
I almost ruined my friend Barb’s 12th birthday party. Her parents had taken a bunch of kids to Farrell’s Old Fashion Ice Cream Parlor to celebrate. We all piled into their station wagon. I sat in the back of the tailgate reserved for cargo on the ride home. Lenient seat belt laws back then. Her Dad announced we would drop off the kids that lived in Laurel Canyon first. I felt woozy and hurled into my souvenir Farrell’s birthday hat. Kids screamed. Barb’s parents were nice and handled it well. I really wanted to save the hat as a souvenir and to show my parents who had never been to Farrell’s. When Barb invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I declined. I didn’t want to ruin two celebrations in a row. Though I would’ve loved to experience a Bat Mitzvah and celebrate her.
Road trips with Car Guy are often, regular, and anticipated. We debrief and process life in the car. We have made many car memories. Not once have I been sick with him behind the wheel. When we’ve driven up a mountain or on a twisty road, he checks to make sure I’m OK. Chalk it up to one of those ironies of life that are a welcome wonder.
In the earlier part of my relationship with Car Guy, I did something that tested the depths of his love for me. I accidentally backed into his black 2001 Acura TLS with the back of my big ass Ford F-150. It was dark.
I was mortified. Remorseful. Apologetic. I thought: “This is it. We’re done.”
Wrong. Car Guy was concerned I was OK. Minimized and normalized the damage.
I was relieved.
Oddly, every time I hear that Bee Gees song, “How Deep is Your Love,” I think of the time I hit Car Guy’s car and him not having a meltdown.
LA’s Petersen Automotive Museum is excellent. I checked my temperature. I have no fever and writing this of my own free will.
The building went through a $90M renovation. It was designed by New York-based firm (KPF) Kohn Pedersen Fox. You can’t miss the red box building that has steel ribbons running through it. It evokes speed and movement.
There is something for everyone. When you walk in, it feels like a walk on a red carpet with the cars as the stars. It is considered a world-class museum with 150 cars on display.
The vault tour is interesting. There’s a backstory with every car that’s not necessarily technical. For instance, my favorite car in the collection is Steve McQueen’s 1956 XKSS Jaguar. Worth $30M. The story goes that the LAPD (LA Police Department) couldn’t keep up with “The Green Rat” roadster. If you’ve ever sat in LA traffic, I would like to know where they gave chase and at what time.
During last year’s lockdown, they did a virtual tour of the vault. I sent the link to every friend I knew around the world so they, too, would get to tour the Petersen.
The Petersen hosts a monthly hoods-up event. The hoods are popped up so the public can see the spotless engines. While Car Guy knows a lot, I tend to also eavesdrop as other mates educate their date about the car. Some are subject matter experts about upholstery, paint, etc.
Each visit offers a new opportunity to learn something related to cars.
I learned that Bugatti was a furniture maker before they became a car manufacturer. The Petersen exhibited both the cars and furniture. All beautiful expressions of creativity and design.
There’s a permanent room where you can watch students from the Art Center College of Design as they design cars. I have thought about what a dream job that would be for a student to marry an interest in design and cars. Bonus to work at the Petersen.
The Petersen hosts fundraisers. I imagine there have been a fair share of celebrities moving through the museum. It would be fun to hear their reactions about some of these cars that were used in movies.
Enjoy.
We owned this Jaguar for only 12 years. Only 300 of these cars were made in the US. It was previously owned by the car dealer’s wife and had 7,000 miles when we bought it in 2008.
My husband found it on eBay and we bought 2 one-way tickets to Denver, Colorado to look at it. I had never done that kind of car purchase before. In my family of origin, we kept cars forever. We dreaded talking to car salespeople and changing out our cars. Car guy does his homework, enjoys the prep, and walks onto that car lot with the kind of calm as if going into the grocery store to buy a bag of baby carrots.
We both test drove the car and paid for it.The sales guy must’ve sensed this was the nicest car I had ever owned. He said: “If something ever happens to it, don’t worry, we have more here.” I scanned his inventory. One car would’ve easily paid for my entire college education which I paid for myself. Back then, I drove a brown 1980 Toyota Corolla with a bad paint job, an AM radio, no cassette player, no AC, and no power windows. It got me to where I needed to go and never stranded me. When Dad purchased it for me, he said part of the deal was that I would replace it with another car of equal value. I made good on that promise. The Toyota Forerunner I gave him was the last car he drove before the stroke impaired his ability to drive. Since then, Dad and I spend a lot of time in the car together. He also likes cars and is intrigued by their bells and whistles.
Ah, sorry for the detour in the story. Let me get back on track…
After we bought the Jaguar, we celebrated over Italian food, then headed on a road trip back to SloCal.
To break up our trip, we stayed at a seedy motel (somewhere) where the furniture in our room, except for our bed, was lawn furniture. I was too scared to shower and was surprised to find the car parked, unharmed, where we left it.
I had never owned a high-performance car with two-toned leather seats. It was fancy and very fun to drive, especially the way it handled around corners and our freeway onramps. It is also a car that kept us humble because of its expensive repairs and funny memories.
On one of our first trips driving down to San Diego, out of nowhere, just past Camp Pendleton, an empty 30-gallon lawn and leaf trash bag flew and snagged onto the hood leaper ornament. We drove with a flapping trash bag strangling that jaguar for so many miles. We laughed at how we weren’t meant to be fancy or full of ourselves.
Another funny memory was the time we crammed three senior citizen ladies in the back-seat: my mom, my mother-in-law and my mom’s friend, Bobbie. We had been given 5 tickets to see a Christmas cantata. Dad didn’t want to go so I asked Mom to invite a friend. However, there were stipulations. Her friend had to be small and free of a walker or wheelchair. Mom’s walker occupied the entire trunk. Mom walked around the dining room of their senior living facility to see who would qualify as a passenger. She came back to me and said she had found someone but they were slightly blind and a little hard of hearing. Perfect. My mother-in-law was kind enough to escort mom’s friend to a seat where she could see and hear the performance. Afterwards, we had a simple soup dinner that simmered in the slow cooker. Mom’s friend was sweet, appreciative and loads of fun. She saw the banister in our home and perked up to share something. She randomly announced, between bites of crusty bread, that she was still spry enough to slide down the banister as she had just done so at her son’s home. Our eyes got big and we told her we believed her. We thanked her and declined her offer to demonstrate.
Whenever Car Guy would ask or threaten to sell the car, I would tell him to do so but he had to find another Jaguar with the same VIN number. That conversation went on for years. The odd thing about this car is that I frequently had other car guys come up and ask about the car. They’d want to look at it or share some fact about the car that the general public would not know about. I would come home and tell my husband that he did a great job of finding something so unique that only other car enthusiasts would appreciate what he had found on e-Bay. I would always tell that story and if they owned a Jaguar, I would hear their stories about their cars.
My husband tried to make repairs on the car and was towing it to and from the car repair place. The final straw was when I was driving behind him and smelled smoke, saw sparks coming out of the left wheel. He stopped and I stopped. With butt up in the air, he was on his knees blowing out the flames like the 58 candles on his birthday cake from the day before, while cars were whooshing by. He could’ve been burnt. He could’ve been hit by a passing car. I came over with a partially filled water bottle I found in the car. He extinguished the fire.
He was relieved there was a water bottle. When he called the tow truck driver again, it was the same guy that had hauled that jaguar two times before to/from the car repair place. That flaming incident led to its sale at Car Max. My husband kept it in pristine shape so it was snagged immediately. In my heart I vowed never to get attached again to a car and knew the next car I owned would probably be a Chevrolet, like the other cars in the garage.
A week after Mother’s Day weekend, Car Guy, found a great deal on an electric car, a Bolt. A friend had one and I absolutely loved it. I don’t miss sitting in the gas line at Costco. It is a new experience to drive and very easy to park because it’s so small. I love how the back seats come down easily to fit those huge Costco sizes of paper products.
Car Guy saved us a lot of money by installing a charger in our garage. It is very convenient. HOWEVER….
In poetic irony, there is a recall on the battery which Chevy is replacing. 14 cars caught on fire and they recommended that you not charge them inside your garage. What is the universe telling me that my last two cars could nuke me like a baked potato in a microwave?
Does your car guy have a fastidious car care habit? Our cars get washed more often than our pug is bathed. In fairness, our pug “Gibbs” hates water. Even at the height of the drought, Car Guy’s car care continued with buckets of collected water poured into plant beds.
One of our former neighbors had an 8-year-old son, Michael, who would ride his skateboard up and down our street, witnessing the hours of care that went into automotive maintenance. We shared this anecdote about Michael at a gathering in honor of his graduation from law school:
“We always knew Michael would pursue a vocation that would allow him to pursue and defend truth. The very first time we met him, he stood over my husband cleaning his Corvette and announced: “My mom says you’re having a mid-life crisis.””
Irvine, California is always ranked high in the list of safest cities in America. It is very safe.
One of the silliest citations was issued in Irvine for not having my front license plate installed. It was also the most embarrassing because my elderly parents were passengers in my 2005 Toyota Sienna mini-van when I was stopped. I was lost in a quiet, residential street and out of nowhere, out comes a cop on a motorcycle.
My mother was sitting in the passenger’s seat to my right. My father was sitting behind me. I was thinking about how this was a manifestation of nightmares for anyone struggling with authority figure issues.
The police officer asked for my driver’s license. Dad questioned him immediately: “Why are you stopping her? She’s a nice girl.” Mom, who had watched too many episodes of “Cops”, started to open her door to get out. “Mom, where are you going?” To which she said, “We’re supposed to get out and put our hands up on the roof and spread our legs.”
“Um, no.” I was hanging onto the sleeve of her blouse to keep her in the car.
Nervously, I introduced my parents to the police officer. They were neither friendly nor amused. He nodded at them with a “Hello”. Followed by a, “I’ll be right back.” He walked away with my license. After a few minutes, he came back to my side of the window and handed me back my driver’s license.
“Do you know why I stopped you?”
“I have no idea.”
I could feel my parents frosty stare at the cop. Mom’s glare reminded me of Superman’s heat vision that radiated lasers. She was readying a come back.
“Did you know your front license plate is missing?”
“No, I don’t know why it would be missing. Was it stolen?”
“Some vehicle owners don’t install them because of aesthetics.”
I had a mental flash of all our cars, the RV and boat not having license plates. I’m sure the cop had record of anything and everything registered in our names.
I started to say, “I’m sure the license plate is at home. We can get this remedied quickly.” Just as he was telling me it was a mere $10 citation that could be paid in Irvine upon evidencing that the front plate had been installed, there was the comeback that vocalized my personal thoughts from my mother— “They have other vehicles. Why haven’t those ALL been ticketed because they’re surely missing THEIR front license plates?”
I looked at the rear view mirror and saw Dad’s face. It read: “This is a disaster.”
The police officer, smiled and said: “You all have a good day.”
I’m sure the routine traffic stop got a little air time at the Irvine precinct and at the senior living facility where my parents lived in Irvine.
Car guy (CG) and I have known each other for almost 28 years.
Things I should’ve included in our wedding vows:
CG’s savant-ness showed early in childhood. He loved reading catalogs. He absorbed car trivia. As a kid, I learned to say prayers or count sheep as part of my bedtime ritual. CG laid in his bed listening to cars roll through the neighborhood guessing the model of the car based on the sound of the engine. Today, our bedroom is next to a quiet canyon that separates us from a toll road. When cars are racing on that toll road, CG can still tell what cars are in pursuit.
In June 2003 my groom’s reaction to the sign “CAR SHOW TOMORROW” was pure amazement. An unexpected bonus. This surprise superseded the main purpose for our being in San Clemente, California: our honeymoon. Our friend Sharon had arranged for an overnight stay at Casa de Elena. She had the owner decorate the bed with tulle, rose petals and had champagne chilling for us. It was so beautiful we were sure we were given the wrong room. It was warm and romantic.
The overnight stay included a lovely basket filled with breakfast that we ate in front of our cottage. After our walk to the pier, we headed towards the great pull at CG’s heart—the cars.
My father kept a clean and well-maintained car. My grandfather, Dad’s dad, insisted that my Dad learn the mechanics of a car before Dad was even allowed to drive the car. Dad wasn’t even given basic driving instructions. My grandfather threw the car keys at Dad and told Dad to drive the car home unscratched. Dad learned to swim the same way. No instruction. Dad was thrown in the ocean and expected to survive.
CG’s meticulous attention to car care is one of the many attributes my Dad appreciates in CG. I used to joke: “You know, Dad, he beats me nightly.” Deaf to my statement, Dad would respond: “But he keeps a clean car.” When my Dad opens the glove compartment of any car, he approves seeing the expected documents are in place: the DMV registration and proof of insurance.
I am not a car chick even after all these years. I have learned to find the other wives at car shows and connect with them with tacit knowledge—to smile and make eye contact as we absorb, drinking from the fire hose. It’s our version of acknowledgement akin to the wave between Corvette drivers on the street.
Life with My Car Guy