I’ve never named a car. There will be no embelishments hanging from my rear view mirror either. No bumper stickers. Well, I do have a Baby on Board sign now. But that’s because I have a baby on board. Not that the sign will cause drivers to be any more considerate.
My dad always named his cars Betsy. After the queen. Of course. One brother named his first car Gwendolyn. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be a witchy name for a wicked car. But Gwendolyn it was. Another brother had a car that he named The Antichrist. Because nothing could kill it. It had seen many a collision and mishap. It just kept on going. And going. And going. The only thing that stopped it was that big car smasher thing that they have at the wrecking yard. It was a 60s or 70s Maverick. His roommates’s car was called Creeping Death. Maybe it’s more of a male thing, this naming of cars. Maybe it’s an emotional attachment thing.
My cars have been moderately nicknamed, though. The Truck. The Subie. The Benz. The Car. But that’s as far as it goes.
