Parts and Labor and Love

**Warning: The following is long, personal, and sort of silly.**

I intended to wait and start my ode to Cabrio until after Cabrio was officially out of my life. Otherwise, as I reminisced all the good, the bad, and the ugly times we’ve had together, I might reconsider parting with Cabrio.

Then it was too late, I was writing and it sort of became cathartic and this all came out. All these words and - I’m not gonna lie, a few tears. I know, I know, but it’s a very special car, okay? It’s the memories, people.

Chillin' like a villain.

Oh Cabrio. Sitting in my bed typing this, I know you are in the carport 50 feet behind me. It’s comforting. Knowing you won’t be there in a couple days is sad. I know. You’re a car. It’s not like a family member or friend or even a pet is dying. There are larger issues going on in the world. In other blogs. And I even have another car to replace you. I am very fortunate. But that doesn't stop the memories.

One day in early summer of 2003, after obsessively checking Craigslist every other hour, we finally met. I was living in Hermosa Beach for the summer, and as was to be the norm, I parked you on the street. One morning, I came out of the house to find someone had kicked you - my new, adorable car. Right smack in the middle of the driver’s side door was a big dent. In it was a dusty shoe print, which clearly said, “Converse.”

What that dent really said was, "Get used to this." That was just the beginning of a very long list of repairs. Not all of them were always your fault, and the first few years were easy-breezy, like any relationship. But some in fact were your fault. Let's not kid ourselves.

We spent the summer commuting up the 405 to Century City with the top down, me in my "corporate communications" business attire, sweating into your leather seats. After that summer, I moved to San Francisco. I brought you and your still-dented door with me. I parked you nightly on the steep hills (curb your tires!) for days at a time without coming to check on you. I’d even forget which street I left you on. Top of Greenwich? Bottom of Chestnut? Middle of Lombard? Other cars wedged into spots around you and scuffed your front and back. I wedged you into spots and scuffed your front and back. But let’s note that only on ONE occasion have I ever run your hubcaps into the curb. In 8 years of street parking, You're welcome.

One day I came looking for you and found that someone smashed your driver-side window. They tried to rip the top off the center console but that sucker was locked. The console top was broken, however, and still is to this day, but they didn’t get you. Or my Aerosmith or Dave Matthews collections in the trunk. Thank God! Close one, Cabrio. I had the window fixed, but a year later, it ceased to work properly. And last week, it ceased to work permanently.

We took trips to LA, to San Diego, even to Las Vegas! I drove you to Tahoe in four hours (it’s supposed to take five). You arrived hot and out of breath, but I think it was just the high altitude and fresh mountain air that got you excited.

We drove to Napa to see horses, and Gilroy with a stupid dude for Garlic Fest. We drove to Berkeley a lot one year. Sorry about the time we drove to Oakland…We drove all over San Francisco for almost three years, up and down all the hills and all the one-way streets. Across the bridges. Over the cable car tracks. Through the fog.


We drove with the top down all the time, especially when it was cold and the heater was on full blast on a crisp, sunny morning. (This is why your replacement is a convertible.)

Some of the best driving we ever had was from San Francisco, down highway 280 on a Sunday morning. Heading to the parents’ house to go do laundry and have dinner, cruising at 80 mph on the winding, hilly freeway. I know. The potholes on Henderson don't compare, huh? Sorry.

Miss you, Sunday driving.

My roommate Brooke and I named you Bella and her car Sera, after our wine of choice, Bella Sera. You were also for a brief time PYT. But really, you were always Cabrio.

And then one day (May 9th, 2006 to be exact), I packed you to the brim, your trunk stuffed full, your backseat loaded to the roof with boxes and duffle bags and a blender (which I still use) and my stuffed animal horse. My dad climbed into the passenger seat. And we drove. For two days. Out of California. Past that corner in Winslow, Arizona and on through Albuquerque, New Mexico. Finally, we reached Texas.

The day we arrived in Dallas, after settling into the scary shack on Penrose, we had to take Dad to DFW so he could fly back to California. We got lost just getting out of the mother fucking airport. I couldn’t find the south exit and we ended up at some random employees-only gate with some poor security guard lady who had to tell the crying blonde girl how to find her way out. That was a rough time, Cabrio.

Then, once we finally found the freeway, we got lost going through the very confusing 35/Woodall Rogers/75 mess. This being my first day in Dallas, alone with only you, Cabrio, I wanted nothing more than to turn the car around and head West for good. But I didn’t. Instead, we headed into Deep Ellum. By accident. Which turned out okay, because a friend said I should go to Deep Ellum when I got to Dallas anyhow. So there we were. I felt okay about it, mainly because it was still daylight and I didn't know any better.

That first summer in Texas, we went to Austin four, maybe five times. It was like our new SF-LA route, only with more cows, 20 times more fast-food restaurants and billboards from God.

Later that fall, you avoided going to Houston with me because you were in the shop at the time (shocker!) and instead I got to drive a poo-brown Taurus down there. Good times.

Now about that shop you were in. Let’s not forget how I found a specific VW mechanic for you, and how they always kept you in good shape. I’m pretty sure you and I were their favorite sight. Dollar signs just rang up in their eyes when they saw us pull in. Nonetheless, I never hesitated to put new hoses, gaskets, or other parts in you.

There was the time the old roommate Jason backed straight into you on Halloween in daylight. Pretty sure someone had been pre-drinking. You got a hood job after that, but it was never as nice as your original. Sorry ‘bout that.

A year went by and you seemed fine, but eventually you started stalling out in the middle of the street and idling really rough. LOTR didn’t immediately know what was wrong with you so we did various things: tweaks here and there, hoses, fuel upgrades, new filters. You were okay for a while, until the day you died in the Wendy’s parking lot when I had to be on my way to the airport in 45 minutes. Good thing I had just renewed AAA. Funny thing was, you started right up after they towed you to the mechanic. How bout that.

Your battery died on the 4th of July in the Target parking lot in the middle of the afternoon when I was holding a case of beer and some chips. The Target on Haskell, no less. I was supposed to be going to a pool party, not Auto Zone. But alas, you always come first.

Then another year later, after the battery in your key fob died and I was left to lock you manually with the key, the key got stuck in your door handle. Like, stuck permanently and the jaws of life could not remove it. Cabrio, I have to admit, I was pretty fed up with you at that point. To make matters worse, the VW mechanic told me that there was only ONE GODDAMN DOOR HANDLE LEFT in all of America that was a match for you! You are one special car, you little Cabrio, you.

Luckily, they didn’t have to bid on the door handle at Christie’s and managed instead to piece the old one back together. Still working, one year later.

A few months after the door handle incident, it was officially time for a new catalytic converter. Now, get this, Cabrio. Did you know that if your cat. converter goes out before 80,000 miles, the government covers it under some sort of warranty? Yours went out before 80,000 miles but I failed to do anything about it except snap this picture on my phone of the check engine light. Ha. And like anyone does anything about that light until much, much later. Finally, at 80,100 miles I took you to the mechanic. And he told me the news: I was out $800, by only 100 miles. Oh, life.

This picture is worth 1,000 words and $800.

I’m choosing to leave out the whole thing in the past several months with your emissions test and struts. Those are too new and will only make me angry(er).

And now, the day before I go trade you in, I’m going to go drive you home from work one last time with one window permanently up, the other three stuck half-way down. It’s been fun. But it’s time for an upgrade, and for someone else to fix you and send you on your way. I’m sure some nice lady or a 16-year-old girl will buy you and love you. Because even with all the repairs, you are a fun little car. With heated seats and an automatic top, might I add. And a new catalytic converter, new battery, new struts, new oxygen sensors, new air filters, new hoses...