It came in a blaze of glory unseen since before Y2K. The '98 Dodge Neon Sport, shining in its pollen-coated blue exterior and anomalous interiors, which could only be described as the after effects of a confetti monster vomiting all over the seats, rolled to the front of my house. It looked mildly outdated, a little early for the green, eco-friendly craze of cars coming over the the next decade after it. But that made it a cougar (older female on the prowl for young men, not the animal) compared to them, built better and an old friend with the road. The key is put in and begins to purr mildly, the horn a gentle squeaking noise, saying "I may sound weak, but I will pummel every Prius on the road like an entire roller derby team." Her lack of a CD player and lever-operated roll-down windows made the experience seem less enjoyable, but her neon-party interiors suggested otherwise. She was ready to party. She was ready to be my first car.
I named her Bernadette. She just looked like a Bernadette.