They say it makes no sense to name a car. I say if that's the case "they've" never had more than one of the same make or color in the driveway.

The first of mine to be named was a 1987 yellow 240 Volvo wagon. In it, we found ourselves zipping around all over town and in carpool lines to the point that it became known as Zippy to differentiate it from Slick the 940 Volvo, gold in color but enough like yellow to breed confusion. And I nip fixable confusion in the bud. Slick was un-ding-ed (undonged???) and suave and parked at the outer edge of parking lots and then straight home to the garage.

Came time to give Zippy to the first of the children who would drive it and my choice of cars was a Subaru, but that didn't happen when I found a Suburban, so commanding that she became Queen, which helped because Subaru/Suburban ... which are we talking about? Another confusion nipped. A few years later, once the hauling of children and friends and jazz bands and volleyball teams had passed, came the downsize and this time it was a Subaru ... aptly named Superoo!!!!

Funny, then came another car, another Subaru, a stick which represented the freeing of Rhonda, but it had no name. I loved it more than any other in what it meant to me, and seems sad that it merited no name. Is it true after all, that naming a car represents some sort of unfortunate condition of the owner? That once I "found myself" I no longer needed to find a part of my own identity by naming my car? ... naaaaaaaah!! Next car was a sturdy Volvo wagon, black and shiny and a working mule of the automotive world for me, willing and able and not to be pampered ... she's Big Girl.

I recently married a man with a problem son ... a silver Mazda Miata convertible. This car's troubles are not entirely its fault though, I'll give you that. Rear ended at high speed by a drunk driver it's just never been the same. Over the course of about 14 months or so of being in the shop for body and engine repair, and about four months of being stranded in my hometown of Greeneville TN 280 miles away, the day this car became serviceable and Frank pulled in the driveway with it nothing else could be said but, "Bad Boy has come home."

And now's where it gets complicated and I think I prove my point. Still owners of Big Girl, within 24 hours we bought two more Volvos. There are differentiations - 1986 vs. 2002, sedan vs. wagon, 240 vs. v40 - but they are both red, and "the red Volvo" is going to be the prevalent ID and the major source of energy leak and confusion in defining which one. Easy solution ... let the naming begin. I, merely for my intents and purposes call one "Happy," the 1986 240 that has brought something back to us that is needed and grounds us. The other, the red wagon found by Frank for me, is, as I am to him, "Cinnamon Girl."

Insert happy face here.