I used to name my cars. First there was Stella, as in Stella! I did an anguished Marlon Brando/Stanley Kowalski every time her butterfly valve would stick – which was daily.
Next came the Mazdareeski, she was a great little car.
Then there was Trooper. He did a stint patrolling the highways before he retired, got a new paint job and took a part time job carting me around in the winter when the roads weren’t suitable for my transam firebird t-top. He got the summers off.
Stanley was a hand-me-down from my in-laws. A fancy Chrysler New Yorker, for his day. No one told me he talked, which is why I jumped when, driving home late one night, a voice from nowhere said, “Your fuel is low.” Stanley became quite the nag, “Your fuel is low”, “A door is ajar.” “Yada, yada, yada.”
I haven’t named a car since Stanley. If I were to name my new titanium Escape with it’s back up camera, synced phone, Sirius, navigational aids, and all the other bells and whistles, I would call her Sweet.