The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 5

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: Girl buys Bug. Girl drives Bug—sometimes, when it’s working, which isn’t often. Girl paints Bug (many times). Girl sells Bug. Girl misses Bug.

Chapter Five: Junior Year

• Carless once again, I find myself pining away for my dearest Bug. I look for the Bug in every parking lot in Provo. I still have a set of keys and wonder if I would have the nerve to steal it if I saw it. I also wonder if I would have the willpower not to steal it if I saw it. In short bursts of insanity, I consider dedicating songs to the Bug on easy-listening radio stations in hopes the Bug will return to me.
  


• On the first Ladies’ Night of the school year, former roommate and I arrange to meet up with a group of boys we palled around with as freshman (i.e., CB and CF and maybe JR, but I can’t remember), as they have all just returned from two-year church missions. The reunion destination is Club Omni (formerly The Edge), and as this is taking place so long ago that clubbing is still cool in Happy Valley, half the universe has shown up for the event. Due to post-traumatic stress disorder, I can’t remember the exact sequence of events, but I believe I am in the club’s basement when I run into Mrs. Gee and her friends and Mrs. Gee looks concerned and asks me if I’ve seen it. Seen what? She takes me up to the main dance floor and there it is: MY BUG, mounted to the ceiling, flashing its headlights to the peppy beat of the main floor music I so despise. The Bug is still red and white, but a layer of reflective glitter has been added and the windows have a mirror-like film on them, turning the Bug into a true disco ball as it bounces light across the room. Just to confirm its identity, I go and stand directly beneath it and look up. Sure enough, there is a telltale welded patch over the former hole in the floor. What was okay for me to drive cross-country with has now been fixed to spare the heads of any wallflowers below.
  


• It is 11:30 p.m., but I call Mary at home collect and, although I’m not a crier, I burst into tears. At this point in the story, everyone always asks why I was upset instead of amused—I can’t explain it, I just was. Mary can barely hear me through the crying and the club noise, but I explain to her that I’m at Club Omni and the Bug is there too. Mary keeps thinking I mean I saw the Bug in the parking lot, but I finally convey that no, it is inside, and it is hanging from the ceiling. She first bursts out laughing, but then manages to calm me down. I go back down to the basement for some “Everyday is Halloween” or whatever it is they’re playing and put on my best “I didn’t just have a nervous breakdown--I swear!” face.
  


• When former roommate and I are exiting the club, we see the manager. I stop and ask him where he got the Bug, and he tells me that some fishy consignment car dealer behind Deseret Industries parted the whole car out and he bought the body for $300. I'm not going to say what the fishy consignment car dealer paid me for the entire Bug, but suffice it to say that I got ripped off after all. After proving that the car was once mine (by confirming that, when he got it, it had a sticker on it with a picture of Elvis that said “I’m dead.” Heh. That still kills me), he parades former roommate and I around to all the employees and gives us some free passes. One of them produces a shoe I left in the trunk. It’s a cool shoe, but I’ve already tossed out its mate because I couldn’t find the missing one. I plan on keeping the free pass forever as a souvenir, but during a cash-strapped part of the semester I cave and use it.
  


• Months later, I am watching television when I see a commercial for Club Omni. It includes a cartoon version of the Bug flying through outer space. By now, I have visited the Bug numerous times and have made peace with its alternative lifestyle. I am even happy for the Bug—not every old car gets to live a second life as a disco ball with its own cartoon.

Epilogue

• At the end of junior year, I am walking across campus after my late night shift in KBYU’s master control when I cross paths with a clean-cut guy wearing a trench coat and sneakers and nothing else. Needless to say, the trench isn’t buttoned. I don’t feel scared and just keep on walking, but when I recount the story to Dave and Mary, they talk Mrs. Dub into letting me have the “kids’ car” Honda Civic in Provo so I don’t have to walk home late at night. (Mrs. Dub pays them back several months later when, as a freshman, she borrows the Civic to drive to Springville and get her tongue pierced. She also racks up several BYU parking tickets, which the school claims are mine. I have to pay them to get my diploma. But I digress…)
  


• When I return to BYU in 2002 for law school, it is to a changed, post-Olympics Provo. Los Hermanos is no longer the only restaurant in town. Private room is the new shared room. The University Mall has finally been remodeled. The heathen UVSC kids have taken over the world. Most notably, though, the club era has long since passed. I occasionally consider suffering a few minutes of salsa dancing (the only thing going on at Club Omni anymore) in order to see and take pics of the Bug, provided it’s still there. But law school is crazy and before I know it, I have graduated and left Provo again without ever visiting the Bug. Since the Bug, I’ve had two Hondas, one Jeep and a Vespa, and I can barely remember the time when I had to pray my car would start whenever I put the key in the ignition. But now that it’s over, I have to say I’m grateful that such a time existed.

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 4

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: On our trip to Arizona for the summer, the Bug freaks out near the Utah border and nearly refuses to go. Once there, the arid climate and a rim makeover do the Bug good. Although it’s cliché, I can’t help but say “I told you so.”

Chapter Four: Second Sophomore Year
(Some of us were on the five-year plan. Deal with it.)

• The Bug runs considerably better this year than the one before. Hooray!
  


• During finals week for fall semester, I paint flames on the hood of the Bug using a stencil devised from contact paper and seven cans of Krylon spray paint. It is a definite eyesore, yet still an improvement on the old rusted hood.
  

Flamer

• At the beginning of winter semester, I volunteer to work at the Sundance Film Festival. Due to concerns that the Bug can't make the trek from Provo to Park City and back every night, I specifically volunteer to work at the screening room at the Sundance Resort, located 15 minutes up Provo Canyon. One night halfway through the Festival, there is a heavy snowfall. By the time my shift ends, the Bug is buried under a foot of the white stuff. It takes some time to brush it off, and when I finally do, I am the last to leave the parking lot. As an AZ girl, I am ill-equipped for snow driving, as is the ultralight, rear-wheel drive Bug. Within minutes of leaving the resort, we are spinning donuts like crazy. I purposely crash the Bug into a bank of snow to avoid driving into the Provo River. As I prepare to spend the night in the car, I wish I had a blanket and/or a flashlight and/or food and/or a floor without holes in it. I don't yet know about cell phones, but if I did, I would wish for one of those, too. After a few minutes, a large truck pulls up and three guys hop out. They are local "ski bums"—they work minimum wage jobs at Sundance in order to ski for free all winter long. Unlike a lot of Utahns, they are not LDS. They tell me the road is closed, but that they will use chains to tow the Bug back up to the parking lot and then they will take me to their mountain cabin until the roads are plowed in the morning. I thank them profusely for rescuing me; at the same time, I mentally prepare to die young at their hands. The road to the mountain cabin is long and dark and totally disconcerting, but the cabin itself is quite warm and cheery and I am given a tour and fed Lucky Charms by a few of the many male ski bums who apparently reside there. I feel a little like Snow White only, as usual, everyone is taller than me. The bums lend me some sweats and a room of my own for the night. The next morning, I am awakened at 5 a.m. by one of the bums who says "I can hear the plow!" Following directly behind the plow, he wonderfully drives me all the way down the Canyon to my Provo apartment. On the way, we see many cars in the Provo River. I promise to go watch the bums' band play at Pier 54, but never do. A week later, Leslie wonderfully drives me all over tarnation in an attempt to retrieve the Bug, which has now been impounded.
  


• Although things are going well mechanically, by February, I realize I have fallen out of love with the Bug. My roommate has the coolest car of the moment—a Dodge neon—and it is so nice ride in it, what with the armrests and cupholders and trunk space and lack of burning oil smell and all. As sad as it makes me, I promise Dave and Mary that I will not attempt to bring the Bug to Phoenix again, and that I will sell it before the summer.
  


• Bored, I paint the entire Bug with a red and white two-tone scheme using 72 cans of Krylon spray paint. Coincidentally, it is Utah’s last really snowy winter. (Sorry, ozone. Sorry, Al Gore. You're welcome, Krylon.)
  
• The Bug stars in every single one of my film school projects this semester. Much to her consternation, camera-shy Mrs. Gee also stars in most of my film school projects this semester. McCauley Culkin has a few cameos. Mrs. Gee is given the stressful onscreen task of driving the Bug all over Provo despite her lack of manual transmission experience. I pay her back by honoring her wish to never show the films to anyone outside of class, especially Mr. Gee. (And by the way, this was written before any reminders from Mrs. Gee.)
  


• In late April, it hits me that Dave is picking Mrs. Gee and me up from school in two days and I have completely forgotten to sell the Bug. After my Wilk board postings fail to generate leads, I ask my dearest friend, the VW mechanic, if he knows anyone who would want to buy a spray-painted, holey, “air-cooled” car within twenty-four hours. He does not, but suggests I check in with a fishy consignment car dealer located behind Deseret Industries. I do and they agree to take the Bug on consignment. They have me sign over the title and give them my keys for absolutely nothing in exchange. Not even a post-it that says "we have your car." I bid a melancholy adieu to my beloved Bug.
  


• Summer is harsher than I expected without the Bug. especially for Dave and Mary (and occasionally Mrs. Dub). I get a call center job for the summer; my shift starts at 4 a.m. Because I have no car, Dave and Mary have to drive me to work.
  


• About two months into the summer, just when I'm convinced I've been ripped off, I receive a check in the mail for the Bug with no explanation.

Will I ever receive even a post-it explaining the terms of the sale? When is CB going to make his much anticipated appearance in this story? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion…

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 3

Previously on The Bug Chronicles:
To Dave and Mary’s dismay, I buy a 1975 VW Bug my sophomore year of college. The Bug is transportationally challenged, to say the least.

Chapter Three: Sophomore Summer

• I decide to drive the Bug from Provo to Phoenix for the summer. Dave and Mary decide that Aunt CC, who has a Bug of her own, should drive with me. It is smooth sailing until Aunt CC and I approach the burgeoning metropolis of Panguitch, Utah, where the oil light goes on for the first time ever, confirming that it actually works. We pull over and realize the car is hemorrhaging black gold—a huge problem as hot oil is the only thing close to a coolant in an old Bug (although VW continues to insist that "air" counts--since when has air counted as anything?!). We make it into Panguitch where the local tow truck owner offers to take us 150 miles out of our way to St. George for the low price of 5 million dollars to have the Bug repaired. The stated need for the trip: no self-respecting Panguitch mechanic would bother learning how to fix anything other than an American car. The stated need is stated with much seriousness. At this precise moment I see an emerald green old Bug with California plates and a BYU sticker pull into a nearby gas station. I jaywalk across the highway, approach my fellow nazimobiler, explain the problem and solicit suggestions. After unsuccessfully rummaging through the ample supply of spare VW parts he keeps in his car, my new friend suggests buying a case of oil and refilling every 50 miles until I get to Phoenix. The gas station owner overhears and offers to sell me the oil at cost in order to stoke a longstanding feud between him and the tow truck owner. I hail Aunt CC over and propose the plan to her, which she wonderfully accepts. At this point I am very grateful I am traveling with Aunt CC instead of her younger sis Mary, as Mary would never go for it. Aunt CC and I arrive in Phoenix 15 hours later, with 20 empty quarts of oil in the back of the car. The next day a mechanic fixes the problem for 25 bucks.
  


• I spend the summer cross-dressing and sweating to death in the non-air-conditioned Bug. The cross-dressing is due to my summer employment at Kinko’s, where I have to wear a Kinko’s dress shirt and one of Dave’s old ties to work every day. The ties make the 133-degree heat inside the Bug unbearable. I am sure the furry seat covers I bought aren’t helping the situation, but I refuse to sacrifice style for comfort and, by “style,” I apparently mean “cross-dressing, sweat-drenched 19-year old driving a beat up car with a plywood floor and Chia seats.” On the bright side, I get to reuse the twelve pairs of khaki pants I bought for the Best Buy gig last year.
  


• I spend days removing the rust from the Bug's rims and paint them white using three cans of Krylon spray paint. They look fabulous. And so begins my Krylon addiction.
  



Better than Trimspa: The Unbelievable Before and After Pics
(Note how careful I was not to get paint on Dave and Mary's driveway)



• At the end of the summer, it is decided that the best way to return the Bug to Provo is to take the trip in two days, driving only in the cooler wee morning hours. 13-year old Archie rides with me while Mary follows behind in her minivan. Archie is, as always, a good sport, but on the second day he opts for the A/C comfort of the minivan, even though it means listening to Billy Joel's "Downeaster Alexa" on repeat the entire time. The Bug survives without incident; the most difficult part of the trip is figuring out how to spend twelve hours in Kanab.
  
  Will Archie write a best-selling nonfiction novelette documenting his stay in the one stop sign town that is Kanab? How much of it will be devoted to watching an “All That” marathon at the Holiday Inn? Were Keenan and Kel EVER funny? Find out next time…

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 2

Previously on The Bug Chronicles: My obsession with Vespas is preceded by an obsession with classic VW Bugs, developed during one heckuva boring summer in Arizona. Under the watchful eye of Dave and Mary, I avoid making a foolish vehicular purchase and return to Utah for school. In the comments section, the mere mention of the Bug and its ultimate fate instigates a spontaneous ten-year reunion of the CB Fan Club.

Chapter Two: Sophomore Year

• Dave and Mary overestimate my fiscal responsibility and provide the account number to my college fund. (This makes it sound like I was a trust fund baby. I wasn't. But I'm still grateful to the ever fiscally responsible D&M. And I’m still sorry I lost that scholarship.) They live to regret it.

• To Dave and Mary’s consternation, one of my roommates shows up for school with an old yellow Bug. My willpower lasts all of three weeks before I use part of the college fund to buy my own old yellow Bug, which is much more affordable in winter-climate Utah.

• 
(The Yellow Beauty. Okay, maybe not a beauty but it had a sweet spirit. Although I have better pics than this of my old Bug, the rest of them also include my 1990-something self sporting 1990-something eyebrows.)

• After purchase, I take the Bug to the VW mechanic to figure out if anything needs fixing. As it turns out, everything needs fixing.

• There are too many Bug-related misadventures sophomore year to relate, most of them due to the Bug’s poor work ethic. Like the time it broke down in the Taco Bell drive-thru when there were four hundred cars in line behind us and the roommates and I had to get out so some helpful and hungry guys could push-start the car, which wouldn’t have been so bad if the roommates and I weren’t wearing Halloween costumes at the time, which in turn wouldn’t have been so bad if it was actually Halloween. Other adventures arose out of my lack of manual transmission experience, yet willingness to drive the car anywhere anyway. For example, two days after I got the car the roommates and I decided to take it up to Salt Lake City. I took the wheel and the clutch, but this girl, who did drive stick, handled the gear shift, and things worked out fine.

• Rather than focus on the Bug’s many mechanical problems, I turn to cosmetic ones. With the help of two roommates and one neighbor's boyfriend, I successfully install a new radio in the Bug. I spend the next three years patting myself on the back for my technical expertise.

• For the remainder of the school year, only one of the two yellow Bugs in the apartment works at any given time. The most notable breakdown of record is the roommate's Bug, which dies at a gas station and is later towed and impounded at her expense. Although the car is not driveable, and although the impound lot is across the street from the VW mechanic, the always-friendly Provo tow company refuses to tow the car to the mechanic without charging an additional outlandish fee. In a show of apartment solidarity, all four 19-ish female roommates band together and push the Bug across State Street to the mechanic. And yes, it IS uphill and it IS in the snow. Although we receive several honks and shouts of encouragement, we receive no offers of help until the last few feet. Thanks for nothing, RMs.

• In the parking lot of Utah Valley Hospital, one roommate stands up to get out of the backseat of my Bug when she is suddenly struck by the realization that, although both feet are on the asphalt, only one of them has exited the car. Although the roommate is quite slender, the mere act of standing causes the last of the rusted floor to give way. Miraculously, she is unharmed and a return to the hospital for a tetanus shot and/or prosthetic foot is not required. For the next four months, all back seat passengers are instructed to sit Indian-style until I finally get the bright idea to take the floormat into Home Depot and ask the orange apron guy to cut a piece of plywood in the shape of it.

Will I win the Home Depo University Creative Woodcutting of the Year award? Will I at least get an honorable mention? And am I seriously planning on returning to Best Buy to work for the summer? You'll find out next time...

The Bug Chronicles: Chapter 1

I realize it's been a long time since I last posted, and I've had multiple requests for a Vespa blog update—all of them from my parents Dave and Mary, of course. I will say that riding the Vespa is beginning to change from a heart-pumping thrill to just plain fun; unfortunately, my schedule just does not give me enough time to ride it as often as I would like. Although I'm usually an all-or-nothing girl, I'm considering riding the Vespa to work one day a week just to get some more quality riding time (on a pants day, as my single attempt to ride the Vespa to church while wearing a skirt was a knee-knocking battle against the forces of nature, which were dead-set on blowing said skirt straight up in the air).

Point is, I don't presently have a ton of Vespapades to report on, so instead I'm going to address some questions I've received about my Ex (vehicle, that is), the 1975 VW Bug that has earned prior mention on this blog. Aside from a few eyewitness commentators, nobody seems to believe the Bug ended up as a disco ball. Well, it did folks. But that's like putting the punchline before the not-so-funny joke. And so I’ve decided to do the Bug justice and provide you a bulleted nonfiction novelette on the topic. Reading it should take weeks, if not months, but I have decided to post it in chapters to break it down. Between this and the new Harry Potter, I shouldn’t have to write another post for a year or so. By then my scooter gang should be organized and producing regular blogfodder.

So here it goes....

Dr. Beetlemaniac

(or how my Volkswagen stopped driving and ended up as a disco ball)

Chapter 1: Freshman Year
(of college, that is; at BYU; circa 199something)

• I have no car my freshman year of college and survive thanks to upperclassmen friends who do and one fellow dorm dweller with access to a Ford Festiva that seats 500 so long as the passengers are stacked one on top of the other.

• I spend the summer after my freshman year working as a cashier at a Best Buy on an Indian Reservation in Scottsdale. The “Best Buy” part of the previous sentence is key, in that anyone who has ever worked there knows what a dull place it is to work and would therefore understand that my very survival depended upon my escape into a fantasy world where I owned a super awesome car and was therefore awesome by association.

• My fixation on the VW Bug begins when a cute convertible number not far from Dave and Mary's house goes up for sale. I’m talking about a classic Bug, natch, because the new Beetle had not yet been released and, in fact, was only the subject of much urban mythlike speculation under the codename “Concept One” in noteworthy publications such as Hot VW. Unfortunately, this takes place in Arizona, and old cars are a LOT more expensive in AZ than elsewhere because they have less rust. I cannot afford the convertible wonder. I spend the summer traipsing around the Valley with Mrs. Gee, checking out lower-priced Bugs advertised in the Auto Trader and narrowly escaping from their skeezy owners. In the fall, I return to Utah for school sans Bug. Dave and Mary pray I will “grow out of it.”

But will I grow out of it? Will I ever grow out of anything, other than my clothes? Tune in next time to see...

They Know

I'll bet her parents took this picture...

So I know I promised a three-episode forum regarding how to tell Dave and Mary ( i.e., the 'rents) about the Vespa, complete with alternate endings and a swell soundtrack, but I'm afraid the deed has been done.

It all started when they called me from AZ last Thursday to say they were sick of the 118 degree heat. Go figure. "We're coming out there!" they said. "There" being here. "Here" being California. "California" being the general location where the Vespa is parked.

Just so you know, I have the most supportive parents on the planet. I could tell them that I was joining a band of rogue Trekkies who are building an undersea armed enclave where they will sequester themselves and practice polyester-clad human sacrifice until the Vulcan gods respond by setting the earth ablaze, sparing only those who were smart enough to live in the ocean and wear nonflammable materials and Dave and Mary would say "Neat!" while Dave's eyes rolled back in his head and Mary looked like she was going to pass out. So I didn't conceal the Vespa purchase from them because I was afraid they would be mad or because I'm not a grown-up who can make her own decisions; rather, I did it so they wouldn't worry too much while I was learning.

Okay, and a small part of me thinks maybe I concealed it for fear of furthering my reputation as the recklessly irresponsible kid in the family. Some families have a black sheep, but we really don't. However, we do seem to have a pink polka-dotted sheep that wears a beanie and rides a skateboard with a lollipop in her mouth, and that sheep has switched off between me and Mrs. Dub in the past, but ever since Mrs. Dub pulled out her tongue ring and went on a church mission, it seems like that sheep is me.

How I got this reputation is beyond me. For those of you who don't know, I've got three sibs: Mrs. Gee, Mrs. Dub and, for lack of a better moniker, Archie. In the past two months, Archie has graduated from school, moved, gotten married, gone to Europe for job interviews, accepted a job offer in Spain, and set into motion the mountain of paperwork required to live and work there. About the only things I did during the same period of time were watch a lot of Law & Order reruns and buy a Vespa. Mrs. Gee and Mrs. Dub have each had a darling baby in the past year. And although I realize that buying a Vespa might be viewed as both (a) dangerous, and (b) financially unsound, it is no more dangerous than living in the terrorist hotspot of Western Europe, and it is no more expensive than committing to feed, clothe, and house another human being for at least eighteen years. What's more, I can always sell the Vespa once I've had my fill of it. Try doing that with a baby. Or Spain.

I have a sneaking suspicion my bad name may or may not have something to do with a certain 1975 VW Bug, which may or may not have been purchased with money Dave and Mary provided to me to pay for college, and which may or may not have been so ill-suited for driving that it ended up as a disco ball, but I guess I'll never know for sure.

In typical fashion, I foresaw the need to break the Vespa news to Dave and Mary from the minute they announced their trip, but procrastinated figuring out how to do so until the three of us were standing in my parking garage, staring at the Vespa, and some sort of ABC After School Special type phrase like "I've got something I have to tell you!" came stumbling out of my mouth. I pointed to the dragon red beaut and told them it was mine and they both said "Neat!" while Dave's eyes rolled back in his head and Mary looked like she was going to pass out.

You'll be glad to know that the next twenty-four hours were filled with so much spontaneous Vespa propaganda that I believe I truly convinced Dave, Mary, and myself that Vespas are the universal solution to all the world's ills. Once they got over their initial shock, Dave and Mary insisted on taking pictures of me riding the Vespa so they could post them on a different blog. I have to admit that, as a thirty-one year old woman, I was a little chagrined at the notion of riding my red bike up and down the street while my parents waved and snapped photos of me, but I was willing to so debase myself if it meant they could make peace with the Vespa. Unfortunately, I had already subconsciously willed Dave's fancy camera to break—an event of cataclysmic proportions as Dave and Mary were minutes away from traveling to visit with the supernaturally photogenic Lil' Gee—and my own photo shoot was quickly forgotten in the ensuing drama.

So, I apologize to all five of my commenting readers for not involving you in the great Vespa-outing of 2007—but feel free to post your suggestions anyway. I'm sure they will come in handy on the next big secret.

Oh, and kudos to Mrs. Dub and Mrs. Gee for managing to keep the secret for so long. And apologies to Archie and the Mrs. – although they are just as trustworthy as the other sibs, their dangerous proximity to Dave and Mary prevented full disclosure. Naturally, I'm hoping they'll consider getting a Vespa in Spain and heading the European chapter of my scooter gang.

Justifiable Gluttony

Here are the cold hard facts, kids: sitting around all day causes one to gain weight. And sitting around all day eating the free candy readily available in your workplace is even worse. A lot of so-called experts blame this country's obesity epidemic on fatty convenience foods and increased portions, but I blame it on our occupational migration towards the service industries. We weren't so fat back when we were farmers and industrial laborers and members of the Irish mafia. That's because milking cows and gutting cows and running from the pigs burns a lot more calories than clicking a mouse.

I've been a member of the white collar workforce for about a year and half now, and for about a year and a half now I have known it was time to go on a diet (again). Until last Saturday, that is, when it suddenly hit me that I was wasting my time with carrot sticks (as if!) and I actually needed to GAIN weight. About 3,000 lbs. worth.

This epiphany occurred when I was attempting to turn left out of a shopping mall parking lot. The intersection is regulated by a stop light—a stop light that is activated by sensors buried in the street so that the stop light "knows" when people want to exit the shopping mall. I was the first in line of about six motorists waiting to exit the mall at this particular time. To our collective misfortune, I was riding the Vespa.

You see, the Vespa just wasn't heavy enough to set off the sensors in the pavement. Everyone realized this once we had waited through several lights where the traffic coming in the opposite direction got green lights and left turn signals galore, but we got nothing. Everyone let me know they realized this by honking and yelling at me. I inched up really far into the crosswalk and motioned for the driver in the Caddy behind me to do the same so he could set off the sensor and free us all; but, true to his octogenarian form, he refused to play Moses to our Nordstrom's exodus and stayed put. Eventually, I faked my best "Oh wait! I just remembered I need to go to Trader Joe's anyway!" look, turned right out of the parking lot, and took the long way home.

In the future, if anyone asks me to "take one for the team," I'm just going to say, "No thanks. Been there, done that, drove around the block." And if anyone asks me if I should really be eating 14 Sprinkles cupcakes in one sitting, I'll just explain that I'm working on my Vespa weight. It's like how nobody questions a linebacker for carbo-loading at the training table even though he appears to be one breadstick shy of a triple bypass: sometimes it's just acceptable to be really large. Given my experience this Saturday, I think we should add Vespa riders to the list.

And the winner is...

VSPAESQ! I love this suggestion because it has a double meaning: (1) "Vespaesque," which sounds exactly like a word I would invent, and (2) "Vespa Esquire," which is funny, because what kind of self-respecting legal practitioner would buzz around on a Vespa? No kind, that's for sure. Lucky for me, I am completely devoid of self-respect.

So congrats to Ryan for winning the contest! As Ryan is a stuffy Easterner these days, he gets Prize A by default. Once he provides me his new mailing address (as in, NOT Cheyney's parents' address as we all know how well that's been working), I will send him his swell Vespa swag.

That said, every suggestion was fabulous and far better than anything I came up with. I was especially fond of all the Italiano (say it with feeling!) suggestions. I thought about listing the runners-up, but then thought better of it. It was actually hard to make a qualitative choice from contributions from friends and fam and I feel like kind of a jerk for not ordering plates with every suggestion. Alas, they are $41.00 a pop and I don't really know what I'd do with all of them, aside from the obvious (committing crimes while riding the Vespa, then switching out plates to conceal my identity). In fact, I should probably add $41.00 for vanity plates to my list of "unexpected costs" of owning a scooter from a few posts back.

And for the record, I am personally not that fond of signing my name "Ginny, Esq." as it makes me feel all smarmy inside. But then sometimes my irritation when opposing counsel's secretary assumes I'm some file clerk and repeatedly talks down to me gets the best of me and I send her an email with my full-on "Esq., disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer" signature block just so she knows who she's dealing with! And then I feel doubly smarmy and prideful, but I also feel vindicated knowing I out-smarmed her.

Happy Fourth of July everyone!