Barbie Car

I have a car angel. I do. Really.

Every car I have ever had has been given to me as a gift. Or bought for $1. 

My first car was a white 1975 Ford Courier pick up truck with a camper top. 

She. Was. Awesome. 

I could start her up with a screwdriver. For real. I kept a small one in the glove compartment just in case I needed it. She had no power steering and it took every ounce of muscle to turn the wheel, but man, was she an amazing machine. 

I called her ‘Boo!’ 

My second car was a white Mazda 626. 

She was pretty sweet. 

I went from a dinosaur to breathing on the gas pedal and it flying! I had a daisy sticker in the lower center of the back windshield and a stereo that I bought and had installed at Radio Shack for $200. 

I called her ‘Little Boo.’ 

It seemed fitting. 

She was a good car too. 

Until the radiator exploded in a parking deck. That wasn’t pretty.

The car I drive now is a white Honda CRV. She is pretty spectacular. The previous owners had her custom painted to match an RV that they towed her behind. She has a swoosh of gold and dark blue down the sides. 

When I first got her I thought to myself, “Self. You HAVE to get her re-painted!” 

Then, she began to grow on me. 

She’s spunky. And unique. And individual. Kind of like me! 

Plus, everywhere I went people would text me things like, “HEY!!! You’re in Kohl’s right now! I saw your car!!” So… over time that became kind of cool! Although, sometimes I’ll admit, a little creepy. 

My hometown, Pensacola, Fl., had a re-branding campaign many years back. As a part of the brand they produced round magnets with different adjectives that are supposed to describe the city, i.e. Unique, Beautiful, Creative, Historic, Glorious, etc… The magnets were all brightly colored and had one giant word in the center and Pensacola, Fl. written small underneath. I had the pink one that said 'Beautiful' on my gas tank door.

One day, as a group of us were leaving church, my friend Chris looked into the parking lot and saw my car. His exact words were, “You know, with that crazy swoosh and the pink magnet your car looks like the Barbie Car! It even has it’s own Mattel sticker!” It stuck. (Pun intended.) Everyone calls it my Barbie car now. It is the cutest thing when your three year old non-blood nephew walks by it and says, “Da’s Fraffree’s Bawbie Car!!!”

I lost the pink magnet a few years back in a car wash, 

but the name has never been lost.

In three weeks I will pass on the Barbie Car that I have driven since 2006. I have been gifted yet another car, a Toyota Avalon. I’ve gone from truck to sedan, and now from mid-size SUV to sedan again. As thrilled as I am to have another car that I can breathe on the gas pedal and fly, and begin fresh with low mileage and minimal work to be done, the thought of letting go of the Barbie Car is like the end of an era for me. Honestly, I’m a bit sad about it. I won’t miss how none of the floor mats stay in place anymore, or how the AC knocks, or how her sun roof leaks on occasion in intense rainfall, but I will miss the way she smells like sweet cinnamon pumpkin, and the way she sits higher off the ground and really hugs the road, or how the dashboard is full of Squinkies handpicked just for her from my nephew Benjamin. 

What I didn't tell you was that it’s not completely the end of the Barbie Car and me. 

I’m passing her on to someone very special… 

someone that is going to rock the Barbie Car the way she’s meant to be… 

someone who has no idea how much their “cool factor” is about to get upped… 

(Ok, let’s be realistic)… 

someone who may possibly be a tiny bit embarrassed to drive her, and yet is man enough to work it without a care in the world… 

my dad. 

The thought. Cracks. Me. Up!!

I salute you, Barbie Car! Thank you for the grand adventures! See you in the 850!

It's been a while...

I haven't written in quite some time. Not sure why, really. 

I guess life just kind of took over and I lost my drive to write. 

I'd like to get it back now.

I've missed this. 

I don't think I realized how much until I began writing again tonight.

Ok, to get back in the game I am going to start small.

I got another tattoo. 

(Ok. Maybe that's big.)

The Tattoo Story. Take 2.

For almost a year now I have been staring at my right foot. I always thought it was finished and said everything it needed to say. In the last four months or so, that has all changed. I sit in my living room everyday, in my comfy chair and a half, and see my David Arms painting hanging on the wall above my TV. I see that precious little hummingbird and the symbolism behind it's fluffy and perfectly still body perched so quietly on his tiny little twig. 

"That looks right."  

I want him too. He belongs there. He's what is missing.

So, the search began. For the PERFECT little guy to accompany my daddy's pen.

I told myself if I couldn't find the perfect one I would not do it. 

I searched and searched.

'Hummingbird tattoos.' 'Hummingbird drawings.' 'Hummingbird illustrations.' 'Hummingbird paintings.' 'Hummingbird photographs.'

I would venture to say that 99% of all images I found were of the birds flying. Now, trust me, I get it. Hummingbirds DON'T sit still. Flying- it's their thing. 

They rarely stop. 

Ever. 

But for me, he had to be sitting. And again, he had to be perfect.

Finally, after about a month or so of searching I found one. 

He was what I wanted; sitting on a twig, soft and chubby and little, muted greens, reds and browns.

He was so great.

BUT, he was a water color painting. I don't like watercolor tattoos. 

They just seem somewhat messy.

I contacted the parlor I knew I was going to use and sent them an email of the image, (and told them I didn't want the watercolor look) and a photograph of my foot. 

My foot with a black and white printout of the little guy taped to it. 

Right where I wanted him.

I got a reply back that basically said, "He's too small to maintain the integrity of the line and the realism of his look. If we make him the size you want he will blur over time and won't look crisp anymore. He'll look like a blob and not a bird."

I didn't want a blob, but I also wasn't sure I wanted him any bigger.

The big day came and three of my girlfriends went with me to get him done. For the first 35 minutes we just played around with my foot and the stencil looking at different sizes and where it could be placed. I knew I didn't want an ankle tattoo, and it couldn't go too close to the outside edges of my feet or it would fade over time. Finally, I just decided to "suck it up" and go with the suggestion from my tattoo artist, Kid. (Side note- is "sucking it up" a wise attitude to have when dealing with permanent ink on your body?? In my case- Yes. It was.)

There are seven colors in my tattoo; 

two shades of black, a red, a brown, a tan, a green, and white. 

The first color hurts. The second makes you squeeze the stress ball until your hand hurts almost as badly as your foot. The third is about the time when you stop laughing with your girlfriends. The fourth, fifth, and sixth are all about practicing your lamaze breathing and trying your darndest to stay relaxed and not focus on the fact that the needle is currently piercing AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN the exact same spots it has been 5,000 times already. 

(That was a run-on sentence on purpose!!) 

By the seventh color I wanted to pass out. 

I am not a wimp. Never have been. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain. 

I am proud of myself. I didn't cry at all, but... this. sucker. HURT.

Ok. Maybe I fibbed a bit about not crying, but I didn't cry during the tattoo.

I cried when Kid told me to "Hop up, Baby Girl, and go look at him in the mirror!"

An hour and 20 minutes after the first needle stuck me I did just that.

I looked in the mirror.

I cried.

Such good tears.

My little hummingbird is the piece I didn't even realize was missing.

Until he was there.

Perfect.

I have had so many people tell me that it is one of the most beautiful tattoos they've ever seen. I think because he's simple. And his shading is gorgeous. 

He's not flashy or arrogant.

He's just still. 

And thoughtful.

I like that.

Have I mentioned how much I love it??

Here is a bit of a peek at the process.

The original vision.

 Kid. Working hard.

My foot stayed swollen and red for three days!

Big, tough tattoo guy took a selfie with me. Thanks, Kid.

So, there it is. My story.

Anyway. No more for tonight.

I promise I'll be back soon, though. 

And I also promise...

it won't have anything to do with a tattoo. ;)

Good night, Tiny Corners.