Car Karma

This past April, my car was burglarized, not just once, but twice in four days. It hadn't been enough that my window was busted, my radio was ripped out with radio guts strewn about AND my car alarm had been damaged, but some four days later, once again, my car was broken into AGAIN and ALL of my paperwork was taken. To make matters worse, it occurred in the garage of my building. My neighbors (two of them) were also effected…(which was a good thing, because now one of those neighbors is my good friend, but that's another story).

I got to know the West Hollywood Police AND the Hollywood police quite well over that week. I cried to them, to my landlords and shared a few bottles of vino with the neighbors (which is how one of them became my fast friend). The police and my landlord felt really bad, but truthfully, a city is a city and the chances of finding the perps was quite small.

I grudgingly brought my car in to get repaired. A week later, I went to get my vehicle with all of the new fixings. While the car guy was showing me the repair work, another mechanic was pulling up with a totally shagged Junker mobile. The Junker brakes gave out and slammed into my car…leaving a gaping hole in the passenger side door. I watched in utter shock. The guys were waiting for me to freak out. I maniacally laughed and shook my head…typical.

For my pain, they gave me a brand new, fully-loaded BMW SUV to drive around in while they fixed my car. Let me tell you, I am NOT a fan of SUV's unless you have several children or several big dogs, but this was like a small luxurious yacht on wheels. Expensive for gas, but nonetheless, a smooth, rocking ride. The brakes were tight to a light touch, driving through the canyons (which I did in a field-trip form with several people) was TOO fun and maneuvering through traffic was fantastical because I was BIGGER, BETTER and hell, a BMW.

Three weeks later, I went to get my car back. All fixed, sans the radio. When I returned the BMW, I was told there was a key mark…which I then visibly saw, all across the back of the BMW backside. Mo' money, mo' money.

So there I was, in my trusty little geriatric Toyota, once again. I figured I should break down and get a radio. After a painstaking look-see at Best Buy, I'd chosen one. When I went to get it installed, the guy told me, "They took the guts of your radio system." This meant MORE parts to buy...mo' money.

So, for the past 5 months, I have had NO radio. Imagine. I hate driving for the most part, but now, I have NO radio to ease my pain. And having had to pay out the nose for all of the repairs, the radio parts needed were hardly a necessity. I spent the entire summer in silence, with the exception of the hum of my car, the squeals of other cars and the painful radio noise of other vehicles. (And, of course, my friends called me an awful lot to keep me sane.)

At the end of August, my right headlight decided to die. This was not a worry until the *#*$**#$ days started getting shorter and I realized getting a ticket would be very bad. I decided to take the trek to Toyota, sucked it up and ordered the ridiculously expensive parts I needed for the radio!! (And an FYI, the Santa Monica Toyota people are SOOOO nice and helpful. Much kudos).

And then something interesting happened. A friend of mine mentioned to me that maybe I needed to have a better "relationship" with my car. "Name it," she said (she also suggested doing a few other things in it to "stir up better energy," but I will leave that up to feeble imaginations and dirty minds of all of you, fine people.). Up until now, I called it the "Geriatric Mobile," and sometimes "(*&$*#&(*&$#(*#$(* rust bucket." I suppose, to some degree, when you treat something with little dignity, it will claw your eyes out right back. And I have to say, my other vehicles, "Ole Bessie," "Hearsey," and "ZUMMIE" may NOT have been the greatest vehicles, but reliable, nonetheless.

While driving last week, just as someone cut me off, I hit the brakes with brilliant ease, patted my car and said, "Good job, Duffy." And magically, in the most persnickety, Brit voice, it was if HE answered back, "That's MISTER Duffy to you."

As of this weekend, like a breath of fresh car exhaust, with my spanking new parts, headlight AND new radio in tow (and much peace of mind,) the newly named Mr. Duffy and I jammed out to some tunes and rode off into the sunset!