Plovember 2: Norse Asian Fusion?

I hated living on campus during my undergraduate college. I am an only child – I’d never shared a bedroom with anyone in my life. Well, save the two horrid summer camp experiences, which were something else entirely.As usual, I digress …My dad was highly annoyed when I announced that I would be moving off-campus my junior year. His response was something like, ‘Good luck with that, no car and all’ (as mentioned in yesterday’s episode, he’d sold my Harold). I scoffed and went on with the plan. My roommate had a car and was willing to drive me since we were going to the same destination (university and the apartment). Some days, I walked a mile (yes, from our apartment it was uphill but only in one direction … let that sink in for a minute) to the bus stop, which was tons of fun in the snow and ice of winter. I did it for quite some time with no complaints outside my own head.Seeing that I would not be thwarted, my parents bought me a car for my next birthday: a 1986 Honda Civic hatchback who was promptly named Sven.To say that I loved Sven is an understatement. I felt like I was driving a tank-sportscar all the time. I had him when I met my first husband and it was Sven that kept me sane. By this time, my college roommate had moved out and he had moved in. But before I digress, back to Sven.And then it happened.Sven stopped working. It turned out to be his timing belt. Off to the shop just down the block from the apartment.Days turned into a week. A call and the mechanic assured me that they were working on things; they’d disconnected the timing belt. A couple weeks pass and I called – no answer. The husband called – no answer. We walked down to see what was going on, only to find the shop, boarded over. As it turned out, a man was there, taking notes. I asked him what was going on and explained my car had been there for repair. ‘Seems the engine of a Honda caught fire and burnt the place down. Total loss,’ the man, a claims adjuster said.I burst into tears. ‘My car was a Honda, but the engine was disconnected!’ I said. ‘Where is it now?”The police impound.’We returned to the house and climbed into the other car we’d procured by then, a four-door, four-speed Buick Skyhawk. It belonged primarily to the husband, so it had no name.The impound was around the corner and when we pulled up to it, I burst into tears again: there, sitting on a pile of sand, was what remained of my Sven. He was no longer burgundy, his tires were gone, and all the glass was blown out. He was a gray husk. There are no words for the loss I felt. Fortunately, there was insurance, so I was able to get another car. If fortunate is the word to be used …Tune in tomorrow for Not What I Wanted …