Let me introduce you to the Bettys. We are four friends who, many years ago while getting squiffed together, decided to call each other ‘Betty.’ We are the founding Bettys and if you hang out with us, you are an honorary Betty.
Yes, I know. A very sophomoric constraint, to name ourselves after hot skater girls. But in our defense, we had just put on the middle school carnival. I challenge you to spend six hours in a gym with two hundred tweens and not revert back to those vapid days.
Anyway, my mom Bettys had never gone out with the other Betty in my life – the one with four wheels. So I planned an al fresco evening picnic with five Bettys.
Sweaty Betty, named fifteen years ago by my mother-in-law, is a 1953 Ford F100 with curvaceous hips, an engine built for power, not speed, and a paint job that could have come out of an OPI bottle. What she does not have is a conventional ignition or power steering. She is hard to turn on and even harder to turn. (There’s a filthy metaphor somewhere in that last sentence — I’ll send you a little nifty-gifty if you leave it in the comments.)
On this night, we celebrated the end of summer and the approach of yet another middle school carnival. We once again rehashed the idea of bringing in a tattoo artist. And those of us who no longer have kids in school looked up at the stars and said a prayer of thanks.
Photos by Renn Kuhnen.