I love my car! I've been driving it for 10 years now, but it's much older than that. Took my driver's license test in it. And even though I plunked down a hunk of change to get the front suspension fixed, it was totally worth it. I was literally going to be a Flintstone's episode if I didn't get it fixed (the front right wheel was barely hanging on with a couple of worn out bolts). It drives better than it's ever had before. I mean, I can hit 70-80mph and not feel like the car will rip apart. what a ride!

It's a classic 1969 mustang. My dad has been trying to get me to get rid of it for years. But I'm totally in love with it. I've driven other cars before, but nothing is as fun as Dilaw (dee-lau), the name I call my car. It means yellow in Tagalog. While my cousins spend 20 minutes trying to figure out which white Honda Civic is theirs in the parking lot, it takes but a quick scan to find the black vinyl top in a crowd. Dilaw has personality.

She's never let me down either. In the past whenever she's broken down, it's always at my friend's place or someplace safe and not somewhere along the freeway godknowswhere. Eventually, I'd like to take a mechanics course and learn more about fixing her up beyond the regular oil checks. The great part about her is that there aren't any electronics. She is what she is.

I don't know if I'll ever get another car. And if I do, I'm thinking my second car will be City Car Share which is this fabulous car share program in the SF Bay Area. Why bother with trying to find parking and getting tickets when for a small monthly fee, you can use a cute little VW Bug that has it's own parking down the street? Save costs, fuel, space, money. This is what you call innovative thinking.

OK, gotta get this weekend going. Don't forget to check out the calendar of events this weekend that I posted up a few days ago. I leave you with the gender-bending poem, "studly woman."

Studly Woman

Can I be your studly woman
and you can be my girly-boy
as I pop the hood on my
muscle car classic 'stang
and you lean against the side
of the hood, checking the
cleanliness of your fingernails
in the sunlight.

I duck under the metal canopy
pulling out the dipsticks for the
green, red, black liquids
and point out the engines
different parts as the grime
reaches under my fingersnails
covered with the chipped cheap nailpolish
you insisted on painting
because your officemates would have
laughed at you if you had painted yours.

You nod with your "ohs" and "uh-huhs"
said in false fascination
I becoming more entranced, entrenched
and gather my long hair so as to not get it caught
in its inner workings of spark plugs,
carburators, and fuel ignition systems.

You take a break to sit in the passenger's seat
yelling out the window asking when can we get going.
"In a minute", I say, doing my final check of hoses.
You watch a woman walk by
thinking, "ew, that skirt is so unflattering
on her big hips," and "Guurrl, somebody actually
bought those Tammy Faye cosmestics."
I slam the hood shut, giving it
one last tug to make sure its sealed and wipe the grease
from my hands.

I jump into the driver's seat
rev the engine to make it roar
but you don't care
so long as I can take you
to where you want to go.