Who is Bessy you might ask? Well, I'm almost too embarrassed to say. No, it's not the pretty pony I wished for on my tenth birthday, my nosey next door neighbour, or that creepy girl at the gym that eyeballs my ass during Pilates.
Bessy is a car.
Bessy is a car that belongs to my mother. And yes, right now she is hollering at my post, sentences like 'don't you make fun of my Bessy!' or 'really, you're giving me shit about my car again?'.
I love my mum. She is the most loyal and wonderful person I know. She is even completely loyal to her piece-of-crap car that should have been dumped in the pacific several years ago.
So why don't I like Bessy? Oh, let me count the ways.
For one, Bessy was almost certainly f@#ked up during production. No amount of Japanese engineering was going to give this car any more lift or vitality that didn't already come from the cardboard box they assembled it from. Bessy stands at about five feet tall - a fantastic height for small children and gnomes, but for the rest of us - chiropractic hell as we literally bend ourselves in half to slide into the passenger seat.
Undoubtedly Bessy could be mistakenly considered a race/sports car to the unknowing observer, but those are usually comments from the 'made in China team' or dumbasses that truly believe that 'red' makes it go faster. Perhaps the red would make it go faster ... if it wasn't peeling away from the bodywork in chunks.
But does it end there? Could Bessy possibly be any more f@#ked up?
Hell yes. The door handles rip off when you try to close the doors. And, coincidentally, the only thing to grab onto when trying to close the door is an open window, but if you've just made the mistake of winding down the window - you're back at square one again!
Ahh, so I've been telling my mother for a long time that her car should have been recalled. In fact we joked about it only last week. Well, I joked about it and she did a lot of scowling and explaining to Bessy that I was just being mean. Anyway, it all came to a head when we went out for dinner. We'd lapped the city a few times, looking for a decent car park when mum decided we'd park Bessy in the underground car park under the Casino. Imagine my delight and raucous laughter when she pulled up to the ticket box, remembered she couldn't wind down her window and had to climb out of the car to grab a ticket. Closing the door? Sure, grab the lower plastic pocket, pull hard and hope you swing your legs back in time before the car gobbles up your ankles.
But, despite Bessy's unsettling amount of flaws, mum loves her dearly and refuses to trade her in. I have to admire that sort of dedication. So this post is an ode not necessarily to Bessy, but to her owner - a woman I love to bits - a woman that gives up on nothing and no one. You have to admire the persistence to endure and the love of a car that should be recycled into tin cans.