I took my car in to the shop to get the key scratch fixed today. I’m not sure when it’ll be done. I hope it will be soon, because instead of my car (which I love), I’m driving The Babemobile.

The Babemobile earned its name because that is precisely what it is not. It’s a 1988(?) Plymouth Voyager. There are several issues with it:

• It’s a 4 cylinder engine. In a minivan. Floor it, and it might go 50mph. Downhill, with a tailwind.
• The hood is rusting through, which gives the paint a nice, abused patina.
• It shoots black smoke out of the tailpipe. I tried to convince myself that it was just a camouflaging device, similar to the ink that squids shoot at predators. But then when Scotty called up from the engine room “She can’t take much more of this!” I knew it was all just a lie.
• It turns like a wounded tugboat. I’ve taken to calling out directions in terms of “port” and “starboard.”
• Everything on it is loose. As you drive, the whole van chatters and squeaks like a small herd of lab rats.

That’s not a comprehensive list by any means, but you get the idea.

Anyway, all that totals up to is that I really just want my car back so we can donate this thing to the Humane Society or something. Maybe that $500 can feed some kitties or something.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain. If the van didn’t exist, I’d be renting a car right now, which costs money. Free is [negligibly] better than not free.