My sisters all love naming things. Each of their cars is named with the same care that one might name a pet, or nickname a close friend. My husband, Scott, gets mad at me for "talking shit" to his car while we are driving, afraid that I'll offend the car (or maybe the car gods). If his aged Volkswagen suddenly keels over, he'll be sure it will have died from a broken heart. If only I'd been nicer to it!
Personally, I find this personfication of inanimate objects offensive to the living. The car does not have feelings. It does not care who drives it, what I say about it, or how it looks. It is not "happier" when it is clean or full of gas, and it does not have a personal preferences, biases, or desires. It is a thing.
Scott and I were freshening up on this argument the other day when the air conditioning system suddenly went out.
"It's HOT in here. What the hell is wrong with this car?", I complain.
To which Scott replies, "Don't talk to it that way! This is why it's having problems. Shhhhh. Don't listen to her. You probably just don't have the dials set right." He proceeds to push every button on the console, while hemming and hawwing over my insensitivity.
"I think it's broken."
"This is EXACTLY what I've been talking about. You are jinxing the car with your bad attitude. Mind over matter, Mary!!"
It's all a blur after that. Have you ever driven across town with hot air blowing at you on a 102 degree afternoon? I was seeing stars.
About forty-eight hours later we're sitting at the Nissan dealership, signing the next thirty-six months of our life away in exchange for a car that can turn climate control on before you even get inside. The dealer is setting up a smartphone app for the car and asks, "What would you like me to name the car?".
Name the car? Name the car?! Here we go again. Before Scott can come up with anything too humanized I shout out "KITTEN FINGERS".
Blank stare.
"Kitten fingers?", he asks.
"That's right."
Kitten Fingers the electric car is sitting outside in our driveway, charging up for our next jaunt around town. It's pretty neat, actually. It never needs gas, oil, or spark plugs, and beyond windshield wiper fluid and an occasional tire rotation, it pretty much maintains itself. The car is whisper-quiet. So much so that the makers had to install beeping and sonar to alert pedestrians when the car is moving.
It also has plenty of pep. You can drive it in different modes for efficiency or performance, but even the eco mode is pretty zippy. The best part is that it still feels like a real car. It's nice and heavy, with comfy steering and big mirrors. It even has a fancy onboard computer and stereo.
Scott sometimes complains about how the car can only go 70 to 100 miles on a charge.
"Don't talk about my car that way!", I tell him. "Shhh. Don't listen to him Kitten Fingers. You're the best."