Some people work on cars. Some people use wrenches and hammers and things on engines, and know where gizmos connect to gadgets connect to gauges. I am not so mechanically inclined.
That’s okay. I feel I make up for it in other ways. I have people skills. This is true. I’m not lying. A Strengths Finder test told me once that I am especially fabulous at “WOO,” which is an acronym for “Winning Others Over.” I meet. I charm. I conquer.
Sometimes, however, people skills are not so applicable to life. When my engine made a loud screaming sound this last summer for instance, and I stopped being able to accelerate on the freeway: that was a problem that I had trouble WOO-ing myself out of.
My solution to this problem has been to do my very best to win my cars over. No, no—you read right. I turn my cars into friends, and then they like me, and then they want to be good for me. I WOO. My vehicles.
You don’t believe me? This from the girl that personifies everything—I know, I know, you think you’re about to read just another blog about how I think there are fairies and dragons and that my stuffed animals come to life when my back is turned. (Okay, but they DO.) Fine: you want proof? I will give you proof. Below: the stories of the past conglomerations of steel and rubber that I have turned into affectionate vehicular amigos.
Birdie was my first car, a 1983 Volvo four-door which sported a “Turbo” notification on the back, which was similar to Danny Devito wearing a t-shirt that says, “Tall.” I named her Birdie because she would frequently make chirping sounds for no apparent reason. Besides demonstrating disconcerting singing aspirations, Birdie had a sun-roof that did not work, and had frequent overheating problems, which meant that on the hottest days of the year I had to have the hot air blasting into the car to get it off the engine. She also had trouble starting. The relationship got off to a rocky start. I remember driving through a pouring rain-storm one day, and getting soaked from water pouring in through the leaky sun-roof. I drove with one hand pressed up against the roof, holding my dance clothes to the leaky ceiling. When I left the car, I made a leaning tower of books and back-pack with my dance clothes on the top to try to avoid coming back to a Volvo flood. We couldn’t go on like that. It was high time Birdie learned some ‘spect. Or at least became a little more cooperative.
We started conversing. I was nice to her. I greeted her, and said goodbye. Birdie responded in turn: where she used to have trouble starting up no matter what time of day it was, she started learning my routine and would easily comply to my driving objectives at 8:30am (going to school), 4:15pm (coming home), and 5:50pm (going to work.) However, any deviance from this learned schedule threw her off. I would surprise her at lunch time by wanting to go out, and she would respond with surliness, sputtering and gasping for five to ten minutes before finally grumpily starting up. What do we do in people situations like this? We communicate. People skills were employed. “Birdie. I’m probably going to go out to lunch today. I need you to be ready for me around 12:30. Okay?” Like any woman, Birdie loved the advance warning, and would start up for me with no problem. “Hon, I have rehearsal tonight, so I’m probably not going to be ready to leave until like 9:30. But it would be really great if you could be ready to peace, because I hate sitting in this dark parking lot when there’s no one around.” Out I would come at 9:30 and Birdie would happily vroom to life. We developed an understanding. She adored me.
After Birdie passed away (RIP dear), I was car-less through college. However, a move to California after graduation necessitated new wheels. My dad sold me his car, a navy blue 2000 Honda Accord, right after I got back from a trip to Africa. My sister and I made the inaugural drive on our road trip down and discussed what we might name her on the way.
“Well, is it a girl or a boy?”
“I can’t really tell. What’s your feeling?”
“Um. I don’t know. It’s navy blue. Maybe a boy?”
“Are you feeling a name like Lightening or Speedo, or like a real person’s name?”
“Ummm… I don’t know. Maybe I could name it after one of the kids in Africa. Tikambe? No, too exotic. Chauncey maybe?”
“Chauncey’s good.”
We tried it. It didn’t stick. Josie was obviously insulted—and who could blame her? We named her after a boy, talked about her as though she wasn’t even there, and I put her in life-threatening situations almost daily on the L.A. freeways. She gave me the silent treatment for the next several months.
I got the feeling that she didn’t like me. I wondered if maybe she missed my dad. “But why?” I thought uneasily. “I drive this car along the ocean every day to work. How could the Honda NOT love being with me?” When people are mad, they require a little extra TLC. My little Honda was clearly asserting her need for an apology.
In an effort to make amends, I spent one day spoiling her. I washed her thoroughly by hand, took her to get her oil changed, and filled her up with good gas.
It WORKED.
On the drive away from the gas station, she finally told me. Calmly, firmly: “Josie. My name. Is JOSIE.” She wasn’t rude about it—she’s classier than that, as I’ve learned. She didn’t make a lot of noise about having told me so, and how could I think she was a boy: she simply explained that her name was JOSIE. “Of COURSE, “ I thought after she’d given me the nudge. “Of course your name is Josie.”
Josie doesn’t adore me the way Birdie did, but we’ve developed a fond working relationship. She is a classy girl, after all. Josie forgave me when her engine died—she knew that wasn’t my fault. And though she did get annoyed when I flattened her tire on a curb, she let it go in light of her frequent oil changes. I don’t protect her as well as I could, but I think she secretly likes being one of the fastest cars on the road. And when she shows signs of mechanical issues—like refusing to chirp and alarm herself when I press the key chain button—I know it’s only because, in those situations, we’re usually parked in sketchy areas and she doesn’t want me to abandon her. If I give her a pep talk, and reassure her of when I’ll be coming back, she alarms herself accommodatingly.
I know it’s an unorthodox method of mechanics, but it’s worked alright for us so far. And if it ever doesn’t…
I can always WOO someone who knows the difference between a gizmo and a gauge.
