Requiem for Baby Car

The loss of her Miata is beginning to sink in. Fio loved that car. Small and zippy, it gave her a certain elan, an identity. Every time she stepped out of it, she felt cool--like Auntie Mame. She'd even fantsized that, when her time came, she'd be buried in it.

But instead, Baby Car went first. Fiorella left the rotting corpse with the Mazda dealership over the weekend while she pondered her next move. A friend told her about a trickle charger that might help so Fio will ask the guys about it today when she goes over to the dealership to pick up her belongings, but she has an idea that something like that would only be prolonging the agony.  Face it, Fio--you've had a good run, but Baby Car is sixteen years old, way past her prime, and only because of the great guys as Mazda has she has lasted this long.

The great guys at Mazda--that's another issue. The service department has resuscitated Baby so many times that they (especially Richard Grimm) have become Fio's friends, and she brings them chocolate kisses on appropriate holidays as a stand-in for the real kisses they deserve.

But all that is yesterday, and Fiorella must deal with today. She would love to pick up another Miata, but money has tightened up around Casa Fio this past month and will probably remain that way from now on.  Ah well, maybe Fiorella's writing career will catch fire or she'll strike oil somewhere. But until then, she and Husband will be sharing his car, which is no spring chicken itself, which makes Fio nervous. What will they do if Husband's car develops problems? What if they if they both have must-do appointments at the same time? What about emergencies? Is this the beginning of the end?