The Miata, the MG, and me

The 2001 Mazda Miata we bought in Whittier, posing on the boulevard.

Romeo lied.

He's a used car salesman after all, so go figure. When I was hesitating about buying our 2001 Miata because of its badly repaired rear window, the young, improbably named Middle Eastern man said, "It's Southern California; we're all done with rain for eight months."

When he said it, I knew it was crap, and furthermore, there are other reasons one might want the top up besides rain, especially in the high desert. Two days after we bought the car; it started pouring rain.

I guess the glass in the rear window leaked, so the former owner fixed with a tube of silicone caulking applied roughly the same way an aging movie star applies make-up — with a trowel. It's a mess, and replacing that ragtop is Job One.

All I could think of when I saw the guys who own this car lot was "Jersey Shore." They aren't big, hulking, and muscle bound, but they definitely hit the gym, and they had shoes that cost more than every stitch of clothing we had on. There were Armani Exchange T-shirts, designer jeans, and precise grooming that must have taken longer than any woman I know.

They pick up luxury cars that are taken in trade at chi-chi dealers who don't sell used cars, and unload them at their lot, so they had three Miatas along with Jaguars, BMWs, and Mercedes. It was difficult to find Miatas, we had to drive all the way to Whittier to get to them.

Once I took it out on the road, I was hooked. This thing may have only four-cylinders, but it also has a dual overhead cam, 16 valve, 142 horse power engine; so, good on gas, it's not. It gets about 25 miles per gallon, and you are supposed to run premium unleaded in it.

What about the MGB? I hear you ask. Let me put it this way: if I were a polygamist, the MG would be the cherished first wife. Still beautiful, but a little fragile, demands a lot of foreplay, hard to get started, and unsuited to everyday use. The Miata is the newest  sister-wife: fresh, gets turned on at the slightest touch, is full of energy, and doesn't mind how often you come knocking on her door.

The beloved MG, the cherished first wife, in front of the Lemon Leaf on the BLVD.

I want to be buried in that MG, so I'm never getting rid of it. The two sports cars, the old and the new, have crowded the 2009 Honda right out of the carport. They sit side by side, the dowager empress and the pretender to the throne.

My husband and I were taking turns driving the MG — when I had to commute, he drove it to work. But now I'm commuting four days a week: two to Burbank and two to Victorville, so having a 32-year-old finicky British car with wonky wiring wasn't going to work.

Having a sports car for transportation requires some foresight: I had to drive to Palmdale to switch cars with my husband so I could shop at Win-Co. Even picking up dry-cleaning is problematic: there's no place to hang it, and the trunk's not big enough to lay it flat back there.

My kids are happy, because we switch cars with them when we take Charlotte for outings. So they are trading a Toyota Matrix with a milk-spattered back seat, Lotte's princess throne (er, car seat), and a assortment of toys, books, binkies, and strollers (one umbrella, one Rolls Royce sized), for a sweet two-seater with a kick-ass sound system.

I'm not really sure why two out-of-shape middle-aged people with bad knees want a sports car. I mean, it's not like we need it to get laid, like some 17-year-old. We have each other. I just figured that if I had to pay my dues by being a "freeway flyer," as they call adjunct professors who work at two or more colleges, I wanted to have fun in those hours I spent on the road.

Plus, if we don't get the sports car now while we can still get in and out of it, when would we? My friend  Lynn has a hotter, faster sports car than ours, and she's older than me, so there.

The new baby in front of the Leaf.