I am beginning to think that my kitchen flooring may come to fruition some time before the Earth goes dark, but not much sooner. Through the best intentions, we have come to be the proud owners of a 1969 convertible VW Bug. This is not the first 1969 Convertible VW Bug we have owned. The first one was the result of my quarter-life crisis, just before I got pregnant with the boy called Bug.
I was born in 1969, so the idea of having a car the same age as me seemed like a nice way to celebrate my youth. I didn't have a fun car as a teen, just the family wagon. A vintage bug is anything but the family truckster. I loved that car, even as I hydroplaned to work during El Niño. I loved that car when I drove around with my Basset Hound in the front seat, her ears a flappin' in the breeze.
I loved that car a little less when I got pregnant, had morning sickness, and craved a seat belt that functioned, along with some air conditioning for the hot summer days. I satisfied these needs by purchasing a Volvo, and left Hubs to drive around in my turquoise blue '69 Bug, with the black drop top, and a license plate that said SKINNY. It was a testament to his secure sexual identity, and something for him to give me shit about for the rest of our married days.
We sold the SKINNY love bug eventually, but now we're back to the land of air-cooled engines, and that go-kart sound. Hubs brought it home yesterday, along with the requisite 12-pack of beer. I don't think he's been in the house more than a few hours since, mostly just to look up parts online and peruse the Haynes Repair Manual, which he has already deemed inadequate.
It does jazz up the driveway.