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    Many women can get high just touching their Prada bag or get lost in the sparkle of their diamonds, but I’m not that kinda’ girl. Forget the jewelry, purses and over-priced sweatsuits with branding scrawled across the ass. I “Jones” for things with four wheels that go “vroom” and are stamped with labels like BMW, Mercedes, Ferrari, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Maybach, Bugatti, and trust me—the list goes on and on.
    I love all things car and always have. For me, cars are like rolling therapist couches (minus the creepy person sitting there with a legal pad, prodding you about your mother). I mean, there’s nothing like taking a fast convertible through its paces on a winding back road (that just happens to run past our house).
I’m very lucky that my husband shares my passion and conveniently works for Classic BMW in Plano. He changes cars like underwear and I reap the benefits (of the cars, not the underwear…although, I guess it’s good that he changes out of those regularly too). I get to “test drive” an array of vehicles: all things BMW (M6, M5, M3, Alpina B7, etc…), Porsches, Mercedes, Vettes, Jags, Challengers, Mustangs, Hummers, Lexus, Cadillacs, and most recently a Maserati.
    I could have had a day that pushed me to actually looking up the maximum jail time for abandoning my children at the fire station, but get behind the wheel of one of these bad boys and be good as new in a few short miles. All it takes is some good old fashioned torque to throw you back in your seat and set the world right again. Winding through horse country, listening to obscene music and the growl of a V8 is something like a religious experience– complete with God’s voice giving me divine guidance… wait, that might have just been Eminem (which would explain why God had such a potty mouth).
    I have my primary “from point A to point B” vehicle (a Chevy Suburban that I refer to as the “Party Wagon”) and I have my toy (a jacked-up Jeep Rubicon that I rotate between calling “Wicked” and “my baby”, depending on my mood). I’m torn on my next acquirement, flip-flopping between a 2010 BMW Z4 (a sexy little beast of a car) or another four-wheel drive vehicle that I’ve become attached to through writing my book.
    In my young adult novel I went against the Twilight deal of shiny new cars (nothing against an M3 or a Mercedes S550 AMG), and went with some bulky classics. I used a 1992 Ford Bronco XLT, a 1976 International Harvester Scout II, and a 1973 Volkswagon type 181 “Thing.” I became so enthralled with my research on the vehicles that I’m pretty sure I’ll acquire one of them in the next couple of years (and pretend that I’ll pass it on to one of my sons).
   Now, the other perk I get as a car enthusiast is just the simple fact that I live in the Dallas area. When you drive down the Tollway you may have a Lamborghini next to you for a few miles and then a Ford Tempo being held together with refried beans and duct tape the next mile. There is a mix that spans the spectrum; but Dallasites (including Plano, Frisco and most North Texas cities) love to keep up with the Jones’s, and that includes buying cars with payments that look more like a mortgage. And I say, Thank God for those people! Because they like to show them off, and now they have a place to do it.
Cars and Coffee, people. It is the only place to be on the first Saturday of the month. Forget the damn flea market sales in Canton or where ever the hell they are, and drag your ass down to Classic BMW. You will NOT be sorry; and besides, I’ll be there. My friend Sam and I are the honorary “golf cart girls” of the event. We drive around and hand out coffee, water, tea and energy drinks while taking donations to help charities (everything from St. Jude’s to Manegate therapeutic riding facility). My jeep is always there, parked up on the grass. You meet fellow gear-heads and see cars that will blow your mind.
    If that doesn’t get you, line up with everybody else and bring your camera for the exit parade. We tell drivers over and over “no burnouts”; but they don’t listen and some of them don’t have the skills to handle the horsepower, so they end up on Youtube looking like an idiot because they fish-tail into full spins and end up inches from kissing concrete. The Plano police also make a killing off the event.
    So pack up the family the friends and even the dog (we have dog bowls out for the pooches—but PLEASE clean-up after them), and come out and see us this Saturday. I’ll have some coffee waiting for you.

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