I have a habit of hitting the wrong button on Vicki the Convertible's key fob. It's because she's a 1997 and the pictures have been rubbed off the fob. I know, I know, righty tighty, lefty loosey, but sometimes my brain hurts after a day of work and I want there to be simple pictures, dammit. I've also been known to set off the car alarm, but never more than seven times in one day.

Last Thursday, I set it off in the parking lot of the little angel's new gymnastics studio. I have McKenna the new American Girl and her DVD to thank for this new obsession with tumbling, a problem compounded by the XXX Olympiad. I got the alarm shut off and climbed in to Vicki. I turned the key in the ignition. It made a little sort of zappy sound, and then ... nothing.

Since I had just set off the alarm, I looked at the owner's manual. It said something about disarming an alarm system that would make the engine impossible to start. You were supposed to unlock the doors with the key, or with the fob, or presumably with something other than a broken wire hanger. I tried that. Then I went into gymnastics and got Beloved so he could try the exact same things I had just tried, because I was late to meet a friend for a drink.

Of course, we both locked and unlocked the doors and the trunk with the key and the fob four times each, because maybe, just maybe, what hadn't worked the last seventeen times might work if we tried it after blowing magic fairy dust on the fob. Beloved looked at the fuses or wires or something. I Googled. I found there are many people in the world who break into their own cars and activate alarm systems they didn't know existed. I called the Chrysler dealer. The guy who was working in sales hadn't graduated high school yet in 1997.

I abandoned Vicki in the parking lot. My mind went to all the things that could be wrong with Vicki. I've only had her since March and she is already my favorite car of all time. I almost wept having to leave her there, all alone. 

The next day we had her towed to a shop that told us we'd need to replace the starter because they couldn't figure out what was wrong. Beloved was all RIGHTEOUS INDIGNANT ANGER! And he called another shop, and they said they had never HEARD OF SUCH A THING and that we should have Vicki towed over there right away.

That night, we had to leave town for my in-laws' 50th anniversary celebration. Vicki spent the night in the hospital.

We called Saturday morning. They said they were just pulling her in.

We called Saturday afternoon. They said actually, ha ha! They hadn't even pulled her in yet.

On Sunday afternoon, Beloved got a call from the garage. It was a long call, and as I listened to one half of the conversation, I grew worried. Perhaps it was the stream of profanity emanating from my husband. I'm not sure. The mechanic said, OH HA HA, it actually WAS the starter, and maybe also something called the dashboard cluster, which you can't buy just one part of, hard to tell, we'd have to get it started first to see.

We returned home to an empty garage. I thought this must be how people feel when their last kid goes off to college. Except Vicki doesn't even have any possessions of her own, so I longingly petted the car attachment for the shop vac and thought of myself driving down the highway, top down, hair blowing, through the summer of 2012 when the grass went dormant and the sidewalks cracked and I got a convertible. Was it all over?

On Monday, we called again. Dashboard cluster? 

But oh, for joy! With a new starter, Vicki revved right up, and there was no need for a dashboard cluster. Which is a relief, really, because just last month, our truck couldn't pass inspection because it needed a new muffler or exhaust system or some other thing that cost a whole lot to be all street legal and stuff.

Last night, Beloved and I went to go pick up Vicki. I was lecturing him about the director who jumped off the bridge in California maybe not being to blame for his own suicide because let me explain to you how clinical depression works. And I could see in his eyes he hadn't intended for this conversation to make me yell but maybe he wasn't ready to back down from his position, and generally speaking, it was a good time for us to be in different vehicles. 

I unlocked Vicki with the actual key and got in. Her contoured seats hit the part of my lower back that often hurts. I pushed the button to put the top down and instantly realized the temperature outside was my perfect: 84 degrees. The breeze ruffled my hair.

I was telling a family member about my love for Vicki while Vicki was in the shop, and my relative said her mother bought a convertible and told her daughter it made the mother feel like a different person. Vicki doesn't make me feel like a different person, but the fact the wind and sunshine can get onto my skin directly head-butts me back into the present every time I drop the top. I drove home slowly, listening to the birds singing on the power lines. 

Two weeks from now I'll be over the starter costs, just like I'm pretty much over the muffler costs. Sucks. Nothing I could do about it. The cars are old. At least they can be rejuvenated with parts.

This is what Vicki does for me: She lets me feel the sunshine. I love her. I'm glad she's back. I'm going to choose to focus on that part. I really do want to be a happy person. 

DJ Nibbles celebrates the return of Vicki. Rock on. Celebrate something today.