In general, when I, the monkey, ride in the '69 Mustang, my SO, the tiger, is driving. I prefer it this way because I have this fear of driving cars that I do not own. I figure, when I drive rentals, it is already an adventure. How much more so with cars I do not own?

My preference often surprises people. I break the stereotype of the typical male - hyped up on testosterone, engine grease, and making grunting noises of agitation, consternation and joy at the sight of an open car hood. I reserve my grunts for other more visually stimulating topics.

However, I love to ride shotgun, to raise my hand against the wind rushing past, and to be driven. There is a feeling of freedom in not having to worry about other cars that might hit the car. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I do not like driving cars, it's just that I don't obsess driving cars like others. I like to sit on leather seats; I don't necessarily fantasize over them while I sleep.

I learned from my father various things about cars. First, you have to use a squeegee every morning to make sure that the windshield is clean. Second, you have to wake up early each morning to clean the outside of the car. Three, you need to warm up a car every day so that the engine does not cut out in the middle of the road. Fourth, when you use the breaks of the car, the passengers should not be jolted.

Classic Mustangs do not lock, i.e., strangers can come by and pop open the hood by flipping a lever. The tiger's car has been the victim of two thefts. In the first theft, the radiator, the sparkplugs and carburetor were taken. In the second event, the thieves managed to run away with the car battery. That's right… the car batteries were taken. To prevent the thievery, the tiger uses a length of cable and a padlock to tie down the hood.

So it was that on Saturday, I found myself helping out at the hood of the car. The padlock key would not open the padlock. The cable had also been looped and was blocking the lever. After a few minutes, the tiger had to give up trying to force the key into the padlock. It was the turn of the monkey. Well, I should tell you now that my hands are like rose petals. Soft, delicate, sensuous. To get them dirty is just a plain sin. But how can I help it when the tiger asks? How can anyone refuse those eyes, not to mention those claws? I probably spent half a lifetime trying to force that damned key into the padlock. No luck.

Finally, the tiger decides to get the WD40. I tell you, whoever invented that product deserves the many millions of dollars. That stuff works! It was like magic. I had to force the key a little bit, but pretty soon, I was rewarded with a click and a turning of the key. I even almost grunted when I managed to turn the key. Instead, I just puffed out my chest and strutted around the garage. The tiger also rewarded me by allowing me to wash my hands with the professional hand cleaner of mechanics. That and the use of a hose really amped up my testosterone. The rest of the day, I strutted around and showed people my delicate rose petal hands that are now experienced padlock openers.