Weird Valerie Appreciation Day

This blog has been all about the scooters lately. And that's not necessarily bad, as Vespatherapy is the theme and all, but like the small-print readers at the end of pharmaceutical ads, I realize the same prescription "is not for everybody."

And so forgive me, but this post will be less about Vespas and more about Valeries—Weird Valeries, in fact. My astute friend and former law school classmate Wingonwing is the brainchild behind the "Weird Valerie" moniker. Like me, Wing switched schools every so often as she was growing up, an experience that made her realize that there is one girl at every school who's really eager to befriend the new students—too eager, in fact. That girl is Weird Valerie.

On your first day of school, you're really grateful for Weird Valerie's hospitality and willingness to show you around, eat with you in the cafeteria, etc. By your third day you've nailed your schedule and met a few people you think you might have more in common with than WV, who simply won't stop repeating recent conversations she's had with her pet gerbils (both sides). By the fifth day you realize it's not socially possible to incorporate WV into your new group of friends, especially when mom always said that "beggars can't be choosers," and as a new student, you are definitely begging for acceptance. During the second week you have an awkward exchange with WV in the lunch line, when she turns to go to her regular spot and you say "Actually, I was going to go eat with Other Person today." You feel terrible, but WV shrugs her shoulders and doesn't even ask to come with you. By your second month, you no longer say "hi" to her when she passes in the hall.

And, mind you, Wing and I are not sexist. Weird Valerie definitely has a male counterpart, and his name is Weird Sheldon. As Wing has observed, WS spends most of his time on first dates "at that burger place on . . . university avenue? remember that place? with the shakes?" If you are a single girl, do not talk to WS unless you want to end up on just such a first date. Be further forewarned that WS keeps a diamond ring handy in the event there is ever a second date.

While her actions are predictable, Weird Valerie is a bit of an enigma. First, does she recognize what an important and selfless role she serves as the designated transitional friend to new students, neighbors, coworkers, etc.? She's like a person standing along a fence, cupping her hands so she can give everyone a lift up, only there's nobody left to give her a lift when she needs it.

Second, what would Weird Valerie say if she truly spoke her mind? Is there more to her than mothballs? Does she realize that her timid preference for light-hearted and completely unrelatable topics such as gerbils and her desire to learn Gaelic is, perhaps, the very source of her pariah status? Because when you take a step back, you realize that Weird Valerie is perfectly capable of faking normal—it's why you were friends with her in the first place.

And haven't we all felt like Weird Valerie at certain times and places in our lives? For example, Wing started a new job a month or two ago, and she's convinced that she's the Weird Valerie at her workplace. I am convinced Wing is full of it and is just frustrated that she hasn't yet made 50 new BFFs, as she is prone to doing—but I'll save that debate for our lengthy email exchange on the topic. As evidence of her Weird Valerie status, Wing offers that she is "becoming a nervous unnecessary storyteller, like, that person who is all, OH that happened to me once, blah blah unnecessary poorly told storycakes that no one cares about . . .when did i turn in to this person? no seriously. when?"

So I have to admit that sometimes when I am driving around on my Vespa, I fear I'm the Weird Valerie of the road. The reason is that I feel like with my jeans, hoodie, and rubber motorcycle gloves, I look like a girl with "something to prove." But the reality is that I'm just a girl who likes red and shiny things, who wanted to learn something new, and who is trying very, very hard not to die in the process. When I look at Wing's situation and my own, I realize that we get Weird Valerie paranoia when we believe others have an untrue or unfair perception of us. Truth be told, they probably haven't had the time to form such a perception—like us, they were too busy faking normal.

So, given all my recent thoughts towards and sympathy for the Weird Valeries of the world, I thought I would nominate today as WEIRD VALERIE APPRECIATION DAY. I feel safe declaring this here, as I don't consider any of this blog's readers to be Weirds of the Valerie or Sheldon type. I think we should all take a minute to call, email, or text a Weird Valerie in our life and let her know how much we appreciate her friendship and willingness to help others. Feel free to report back in the comments section, if you feel so inclined.

(But whatever you do, please, PLEASE do not call me today. It would seriously take me 50 Vespa rides to get over it.)

Postscript on the Green Thing

Thanks for all the awesome comments regarding your personal proclivity for scooter-riding, which reminded me about a few more shareable scooter tidbits.

So, I don't know how many of you are already familiar with the Piaggio MP3, pictured below:


As you can see, it's a three-wheeled scooter. As you can also see, it is a little strange-looking because those crazy Italians put the third wheel in the front, while we Americans generally prefer our third wheels in the back. I don't know if it's fair to say the MP3 "took the scooter world by storm," since the scooter world seems impervious to storming because it is both cool as a cucumber and incredibly factionalized by brand loyalties--but the MP3 WAS the most-anticipated innovation in a long time in an industry that has remained relatively stagnant for 50 or so years.

Apparently, Piaggio spent a great deal of time and effort engineering the MP3 so that the two "independent" front wheels were capable of tilting up to 40 degrees, like so:

The advertised result is that the "MP3 provides safety, road grip and stability levels that no two-wheeler can match. Its power, performance and ease of use make for a very entertaining ride." No doubt the MP3 would be easier to learn to ride than a standard scooter in the same way that training wheels make it easier to learn to ride a bicycle. It would also be way more convenient in parking and other situations, where I often find myself frustrated while trying to do one thing with my left hand while supporting the entire weight of the Vespa with my right hand--like take off my gloves, pull out a parking ticket, etc. Usually, my teeth have to get involved at some point. (Of course, this wouldn't be so much of a problem if my legs were of average length and could both reach the ground at the same time while I was on the Vespa to hold it steady.)

And next year, the MP3 (along with a wimpy Vespa LX 50) will be available in a HYBRID version. You sacrifice your entire cargo space under the seat for the battery, but isn't helping the environment and saving on gas worth wearing a gigantic and unattractive backpack everywhere you go?

Unfortunately, the cost of all that engineering has been passed on to the consumer. The scooter world (specifically, the scooter blogging world) has lauded the "fun" factor of the MP3, but railed against its $7000+ price tag. Indeed, the dealership where I bought my Vespa had several MP3s in stock and almost every shopper paused to look at them and sit on them, but I didn't see anyone buy one. I also haven't seen any on the streets of West LA, where I regularly see Bentleys, Lotuses and other vehicles that appeal to the "Look at me! I'm driving something expensive and different!" motorist.

Come to think of it, maybe if Piaggio raised the MP3 price to $170,000, they would sell a few more around here...

It's Not Easy Being Green

Life with Vespa continues, but I’m always beating myself up about not driving the Vespa more than I do. A while ago I made a goal to start driving it to work one day a week, and I have yet to fulfill that goal. Part of it is a snoozing issue, part of it is a wardrobe issue, and part of it is a fear issue. Still, I feel guilty.

But consider this, which I pulled off the Vespanomics Fact Sheet:

If Americans were to switch just 10% of their total mileage to scooters, they would consume 14 - 18 million gallons less fuel per day and carbon dioxide emissions could be reduced by 324 million
pounds per day as well. (Source ICR survey, May 2006).

On a personal level, they could also reduce fuel consumption by approximately 58%, carbon dioxide emissions by 80%, and significantly reduce traffic congestion.

By my calculations, I have switched 20% of my total mileage from the Jeep to the Vespa. This is based on nothing more than the fact that the Jeep used to go through at least 4 tanks of gas per month, but now goes through 3-ish. Indeed, I do almost all my weekend driving on the Vespa. Last Sunday I even rode it to church and learned a valuable lesson in the process: do not ride the Vespa while wearing a pencil skirt.

Still, that’s a personal savings of about $50 a month without even trying. Also, I have to admit that while I’m no environmental activist, it feels good to know I’m doing my part, even if there’s room for improvement.

But Piaggio (which manufactures the Vespa) is taking it further:

In an effort to position motor scooters and motorcycles as a viable solution for America's oil dependency problems, Piaggio Group Americas is encouraging local and federal government agencies to consider adopting parking and traffic reforms that facilitate the use of two-wheel vehicles as a transportation alternative available to the general public.

This got me thinking about the lousy parking available for two-wheeled vehicles. Let’s face it: everyone gets mad when they see a scooter taking up a whole, real parking space. And while it’s true that I’ve generally found great “alternative” parking for the Vespa, to date I think I’ve only legally parked the thing once. Most of the time I park in those spaces with lines painted through them and miraculously get away with it. I stopped parking in the blue ones once I realized they were there to enable disabled persons to exit their vehicle. So the yellow ones are all I’ve got left. And as I’ve mentioned before, most LA parking garages are not scooter-friendly because entrance requires setting off a weight sensor in addition to taking one’s ticket.

I realize scooters are not a solution for everyone or practical for every trip. Obviously, I don’t begrudge moms (or dads) for driving cars big enough to hold multiple little people when required. And even on the weekends I take the Jeep to places like Costco or Home Depot. But I’m curious:

• If the purchase price, gear, and insurance were not an issue, would you consider getting a scooter (or smaller motorcycle)?
  


• If so, what would you use it for—commute, pleasure, or both?
  


• If not, what are your reasons (family’s too big, safety concerns, etc.)?

Happy Days Are Here Again

So, here it is, MY dragon red Vespa, on Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica, overlooking the Pacific Ocean (which you can’t see in the picture, but trust me, it’s below those cars and trees in the background and it’s beautiful).

Today is Labor Day and my labor of choice was driving my Vespa down to the beach and back, thus breaking my three-week Vespa hiatus. I have to admit, I was a little nervous, feeling as though everything I learned in my long months of Vespa practice would have been forgotten in the intervening downtime and this would be like that first ride all over again. In fact, I was downright cranky at the notion of even having to leave my house today. I suffer from what we call “the Sunday Night Blues” in the Ess family—you know, that sad feeling you get on Sunday night when the pressures of the coming workweek begin to take mental shape. This Sunday night was blissfully blues-free due to the three-day weekend, but for some reason I’ve spent all Monday with a Sunday Night Blues-type feeling rather than cavorting about and enjoying the holiday as I should.

The Roommate saw me stomping out the door this afternoon and predicted that once I actually got on the Vespa, I would remember how fun it was. I hate to say it, but…

She was right.

This ride was just what I needed to lift my spirits—a phenomenon that supports this blog’s underlying theme of Vespatherapy. First, not only had I not forgotten how to drive it, but it seemed like I had almost gotten better. I think I’ve finally learned to relax a little when I’m riding the Vespa—today I drove about four miles before I realized that I hadn’t thought about my feet even once. By “my feet,” I mean the timing of when to pick up my right foot when taking off after a stop and, similarly, when to set it down once I’ve come to a stop. It’s not the biggest deal in my Vespacades, but it’s something that heretofore I’ve been really aware of. The fact that I made several stops today without even thinking about it means everything is coming a little more naturally, no?

Second, I got this awesome Vespa Wave and honk from a fellow rider today. Those of you who ride motorcycles are doubtlessly familiar with the Biker Wave that you are required to give to all passing bikers under threat of death by the Hell’s Angels, or whoever the biker gang du jour is (clearly I haven’t paid attention in decades). As everyone knows, motorcyclists do not consider scooters real “bikes,” and so I’ve only been the recipient of a few courtesy biker waves to date (picture a helmeted guy rolling his eyes while half-heartedly raising a few fingers of one hand as he passes in the opposite direction). This is fine by me as I am still loathe to raise either of my hands while driving for fear of spinning wildly out of control. In fact, when I do get a wave, all I can muster is a nod of my head and a smile that says “I would wave back, but I’m probably going to crash at any minute as it is. And yes, I could drive this thing with my legs crossed if I wanted to. Deal with it.”

For the record, I have never gotten a wave from a non-Vespa scooterist (and on that topic, I seriously question the name Kymco Peoples, as those who drive them don’t seem like “people” people to me). But the Vespa-Vespa passing rules are carved in fine Italian marble: you MUST wave and cheering or whistling, while optional, is encouraged. As you might have guessed, the Vespa Wave is somewhat more eager than the Biker Wave: the elbow is fully raised and the hand is whisked briskly from side to side. While the casual Biker Wave seems to state “Hey,” the Vespa Wave says “Oh my gosh! Hi! Hi There!! We both like Vespas—isn’t that cool?!!”

Again, due to my poor motoring confidence, the most I have been able offer in response to a Vespa Wave is a raised shaking of a couple of fingers with a nod of the head. Until today. Today I approached a particular intersection and, as I did so, I could see a guy on a Vespa stopped in the cross traffic. He didn’t see me, and I realized that it was my duty to instigate the Vespa Wave. I was really apprehensive as I am semi-allergic to public displays of enthusiasm and I generally don’t like to instigate anything. Still, I took a deep breath and, as I drove through the intersection and passed him, I full-on took my right hand off the throttle and waved vigorously for 1.5 seconds. My efforts paid off when he waved just as vigorously back at me and followed it with a few cheerful honks. I don’t know why, but it just made my day.

La triste Vespa

Poor Vespa. It has been so neglected lately.

There are a couple of reasons for this. The first is that I went on a short vacation two weeks ago, but the "planning for" and "recovery from" periods extended the impact said short vacation had on my available Vespa riding time, which is low to begin with. Being a grown-up sucks, because unlike the cashier or data-entry or call center jobs of yore, the work that arose during the vacation was still waiting for me when I got back. There was no “other” person on a nameless team of people to do it in my absence. It makes a vacation almost not worth it, no?

The second is that The Roommate dared me to break one of my all-time cardinal rules, and I regretfully accepted. You know how when you go to the zoo to visit the baby pandas, there are little signs around that say DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS along with some fine print about how the zoo isn’t trying to be mean, it’s just that human food is not good for them? I seriously think there should be a sign posted within ten feet of me at all times that says DO NOT GIVE GINNY FICTION with some fine print about how it’s for my own good and some bold print especially warning against serial young adult fiction. Cause honestly people, it is like crack to me—once I start, I cannot put it down, no matter how mediocre the writing.

Unfortunately, I have no such sign and so The Roommate didn’t know what damage she was doing when she offered me her copy of Twilight, the first book in Stephenie Meyer’s young adult series about hot teen vampire romance (words I never expected to type). It’s fiction, by the way, and in case you’re like me and you never heard of it, it is somewhat of a cultural phenomenon and a major bestseller—or so the tweens whose online Twilight forums I’ve been stalking have informed me. Incidentally, it is also written by an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale, Arizona (and although I am also an LDS girl who grew up in Scottsdale and there aren’t that many of us, I don’t know her. But the books are not LDS-themed*). Thank goodness the Roommate did this on a Friday night instead of like a Wednesday night or something, because it only resulted in a Lost Weekend instead of a Lost Workweek Replete With Lost Job. I read Twilight on Friday night after work, made my way through the second book, New Moon, on Saturday and Sunday, and finished the third, Eclipse, by Tuesday. I’m not saying these books are the best thing since Ulysses, but they are definite page-turners. Needless to say, reading approximately 1800 pages and discussing them with The Roommate and the sisters and the mom and lurking on tween online forums and feeling shame for lurking on tween online forums and wondering why I don’t have the html skills of the average 11-year old and sleeping and working and attending church over a four-day period does not leave much time to take the Vespa out for a spin. In fact, it doesn’t leave much time for grocery shopping or laundry washing or any number of things that should be done on the average weekend and should especially be done on a weekend following a short vacation.

The third reason is that I recently ordered a snappy new baby blue and white helmet, which has not yet arrived. But just knowing that it exists and is on its way makes me all the more saddened at the thought of riding with my current gargantuan black helmet. I promise to post pics comparing the two once the new one finally gets here. In fact, I promise to ride the Vespa somewhere dreamy in the coming week and post pics of that as well.

In other news, Vespa is holding an amateur video contest to promote their new “Vespanomics” campaign. The winning auteur will receive a new Vespa GTS, which puts my lil’ LX-150 to shame. More importantly, if I already know the winning auteur, he or she can be in my scooter gang. I have seen some of the entries and I know you can do better, people. Get on it!

Apologies for yet another self-obsessed, pic-less post. I have every intention of mending my ways shortly.

* And for you non-Morms out there, I just want to assure you that Vampire mythology and other elements of the occult are not a part of our religious beliefs, no matter what your neighbor who “knew a guy” told you.

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…