Ode To My Kia Sedona

Maybe someday I’ll put this to music, but for now, here’s my latest poetic composition…

Ode to My Kia Sedona
by Chas Hathaway

I can’t help but thinking
The one I have now’s not sufficient
My old pick,
But not too aesthetic
I’d long since gave up as deficient

The first time I saw you
I knew you’d be mine
You wanted me too
After six months garaging full-time

Reflecting bright
the mid-day light
The hue of the sun’s full corona
A brilliant white
I venture to write
This ode to my Kia Sedona

Your battery,
No flattery,
Made sounds that were clattery
The price to get fixed made me cower
At great cost,
Your defrost,
When came calling Jack Frost
A short wired fuse drained your power

So to the mechanic
I drove you that day
The price made me panic
As I walked irately away

Reflecting bright
the mid-day light
The hue of the sun’s full corona
A brilliant white
I venture to write
This ode to my Kia Sedona

Now camping,
After wilderness stamping
We notice you had a flat tire
Replace it,
Now race it,
A new flat displaced it
Halfway home – I think cars conspire

Back to the shop
Once again you won’t start
Alternator’s a flop
‘Till we save up the cost for the part

In case you’re ideal’s
on a new set of wheels
Before your trip through Arizona
Consider my plight
Get the car that’s right
Just don’t get a Kia Sedona

Reflections of a Mazda: Dealing with a Driver who is a Lemonhead

Guest blogger: Lilo, the 1993 Mazda 626

Don’t ask me what Chas is trying to accomplish in this photo, but I have noticed a funny taste in my wiper fluids lately…

So I finally got around to reading Chas’s entry on cars that are lemons. But the thing I find ironic is that there is little mention of his own problems – oh, he makes it clear that he knows a great deal about car personalities, but did he ever bring up his knowledge of car maintenance? Of course not. Why not? It is for the simple reason that he doesn’t have any.

Don’t get me wrong, Chas is alright as a person, but I think Chas has about as much knowledge of car mechanics as a duck – a mentally challenged duck… a dead mentally challenged duck.

Why do I say this? Well, I’ve been driving Chas around for about two years, and all I can say is that I’m jealous of Ourtwo, who is now in lemon heaven. If his wife didn’t offer him five bucks for every time he did an oil change, I’d probably be there myself.

But my point here is not to rip on Chas. My point is to give advice to all you cars out there who have lemonheads for drivers. It only takes one to ruin a car, so if you are driving a lemonhead around, here are some tips for making the best of whatever time you have left.

  1. I know it’s standard to turn off your “Check Engine” light after you are repaired. Lemonheads don’t see that light, but their spouses do. If you keep that light on, their spouse will probably nag and bribe them to take you in to get you checked. When, after three months of pestering, they finally take you in, the mechanic will lecture them about keeping the fluids up and getting regular oil changes. They won’t do both, but they will either get you an oil change or get you fresh fluids. After they do, just turn your “Check Engine” light back on.

  2. Being low on oil can get tiring fast. To prevent your driver from spending more than the absolutely necessary time driving you, make sure your heater and air-conditioning never work. This is vital if you drive a lemonhead. The life of a lemonhead primarily consists of eating, sleeping, and puttering. The less puttering they do while driving, the better. You will get the recuperation time you need.

  3. Make lot’s of external noises. Rattle your muffler, squeal your pulleys – anything that will get the attention of passersby. Your lemonhead will just think you are talking to the other cars, but the common Joe will recognize that you are in need of help. They will recommend to your driver that they should tighten your pulleys or check the brake fluid. Of course he won’t do that, but if he hears this advice enough, he will start getting worried around inspections time. Be sure that when that time comes around that you play it up good – conk out a few times if you need to. He’ll get you into the shop – he won’t want to, but he’ll do it.

  4. Whatever you do, do NOT make the solutions to your problems too obvious! While it would be nice if your driver was savvy enough to fix the problem, don’t forget that he is a lemonhead.  His idea of obvious and yours are quite different, and if he feels confident he can fix it, he will try. And if he tries, you have a problem. In fact, you’ll have many problems. Anything that requires more than adding fluid ought to be done in the shop for you, or you’ll be in the junkyard before inspection day.

So if you are dealing with a driver who is a lemonhead, your prime directive is to get into the shop as OFTEN AS POSSIBLE. It’s your only chance for survival. This will also keep him from ever saving up enough money to buy a new vehicle, which is good for you, because as a lemonhead, your driver knows about as much about selling a car as he does about fixing one, so he’ll just junk you.

I’m proud of my adopted brother, Buzz, who has just conjured up enough problems to keep him in the driveway for several months while Chas saves up the money to get him fixed. That will keep us both around for awhile – I get to continue being the primary vehicle and Buzz gets a rest.

I’m not worried about Buzz, because he’ll be the only vehicle big enough to carry the whole family once Chas’s new baby comes along, and I’m not worried about myself because I get to be the primary vehicle for a while.

Besides, it’s almost inspection time.

Read More Funny Entries

When your Car’s a Lemon, Make Lemonade

Cars are like people. It’s the messed up ones that have the fascinating personalities. It’s the lemons that have all the great stories. How many funny stories are there about brand new flawless cars? I am no mechanic. I know very little about the inner workings of an automobile, but I have a good deal of experience working with junky cars.

Image courtesy of iGeir Halvorsen/i on Flickr
Image by Geir Halvorsen on Flickr

The key to coping with a clunker is to have a sense of humor. With the right approach, this can be easy.

Ourtwo’s suggestions for getting the most out of a clunker.

1. Name your car.

Naming your car gives you the first glimpses into its personality. The most recent car that my wife and I had was a small white ’96 Dodge neon. We named him Ourtwo, after R2D2 on Star Wars, because he had so many odd creaks and squeaks and he looked like him. We even bought some boat letters and plastered his name on his bumper. I admit, the spelling was a little wacky, but that too added to Ourtwo’s personality. People would read the letters and say, “What’s Ah-oort-wo?”

2. Know your car’s personality.

This is essential if you are ever to get along with your car. You must recognize that your car has its own ideas about things. Your car has an attitude. It also has fears and eccentricities. Some even have obsessive-compulsive behaviors. Ourtwo was a good car, but he was incredibly doctor-shy. Every time we took him to the mechanic, his symptoms would magically vanish. The first couple times I thought it was an amusing irony, but after the 4th and 5th time, I realized that Ourtwo had a phobia.

Ourtwo also had a strange left-turn signal. When you first pushed the signal, it would click like normal, but as soon as you pressed the brake, the clicker would go berserk. Sometimes it would just stay on. Sometimes it would double it’s pace. Sometimes it would double it’s pace, then triple, and get faster and faster until it stayed on completely all in a matter of about 3 seconds. Other times it would change to a random pace, clicking without any conceivable pattern. We decided Ourtwo was trying to tell us something, since there seemed to be no way of predicting which click style he would use each time. So we made up a chart with all of the clicks, and assigned each to a fortune or prediction so Ourtwo could let us know by means of the left turn signal what kind of premonition he was Continue reading When your Car’s a Lemon, Make Lemonade

Making Moments: Why Parents Come in Pairs

Took the munchkins shopping today.  All I can say is…
Good. Gravy.

Things started out all right.  But soon Lunch Bucket and Tootles were fighting over a curtain set that we were purchasing, and when I took it from them, it was complete pandemonium.

I’m sure there was some in the store that suspected that I was kidnapping the kicking, screaming, and thrashing little three year old, as I took them both out to the car and left Jenni to do the shopping.  Especially when the said three year old would not get in the car, and which I finally has to shove in the door and slam it before she escaped.

Tootles was only slightly more cooperative.  At least he calmed down once he was in his carseat.  Trying to buckle in the struggling Lunch Bucket was very challenging, but soon the three of us were sitting in the car amidst frantic tantrum gasps.

Jenni finished up the shopping and came out in time to see a calm but very pink and wet-faced Lunch Bucket.

We didn’t take her into any more stores after that.  I did feel bad for her throughout the ordeal, but I felt at least as bad for me.  Thinking back on it now, I feel even more bad for my poor parents.

If You had Giraffe Neck

If You had a Giraffe Neck

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a neck like a giraffe?  You can still have every other part of you normal – just a reeeeeeeally long neck.  That’s what I was discussing with my Dad, Mom, and Jenni today.
So think about it.  What would it mean to have a long neck like a giraffe.  The average giraffe is about 18 feet tall, so let’s say your neck is long enough to make you 18 feet tall.  What would that mean?

  • You’d need a tall house – with vaulted ceilings and probably only one floor.  Probably 18 foot tall doorways, too, so you don’t get a crick in your neck every time you pass through one.
  • You’d need a super tall table, and you’d have to eat without hands – since they can’t reach the top of the table.  The alternative would be to bend your neck almost into a full circle to reach your hands – which a giraffe can’t do.  You might need some kind of dumb-waiter to get your food to the top of the table.
  • You’d need an interesting car – perhaps a spout out the top with a beaker-like shell as a wind-shield.  The dashboard dials would have to project on the widow of the beaker.  Also, the beaker would have to eject in an accident, and you’re airbag would have to be on the front bumper, about where the hood ornament would normally be.
  • You’d have to wear massive shoes to keep balance.  Otherwise you’d tip over every time you bent your neck.
  • People would assume that you’d be good at basketball, but your arms can’t reach any higher than normal.  You could figure out a way to suction the ball to your mouth, but then your aim would be like being on a second story balcony trying to spit on someone’s head.  If you tried to tip your neck to dunk it, you’d have to do it from the 3 point line – but you’d have to be careful not to smack your head on the backboard.  Plus goal-tending would be painful.
  • You’d need binocular glasses in order to read or use a laptop – and the laptop would have to be able to lay flat.
  • You’d be a nuisance at a movie theater or sporting event.
  • You’d always have to talk down to people – and shout for them to hear you.
  • You’d have a pretty good overhead view outside, but you’d have to avoid getting clothes-lined by power lines.  You’d get sick of the question, “How’s the view?”
  • You’d never be able to work on the underside of a car.
  • You’d have to use trees to scratch your nose and comb your hair.


Any other things that you can think of that would happen if you had a giraffe neck?