Damn, Gina

A confession: I like to name things. Animals and plants, of course, but also inanimate objects, namely major gear (cars, backpacks, tents, etc…) This proclivity may be genetic; my grandma has always named things. Mostly though I think it is partly because I believe we (said object and me) treat each other better when names are involved, and partly because this way I can at least pretend I am talking to someone else, rather than talking out loud to myself all the time. 
But I digress.
What I mean to say is, everyone, meet Gina.
Gina, meet everyone.

Apparently Honda like to make sure you know who they are…
The story of how Gina got her name.
It’s about 5:30 am. I am on the way out of Christchurch, successfully staying on the proper side of the road. I am thinking of what I should name this little Honda. All of a sudden a voice pops into my head… Gina, it says. I ignore it. We can do better than that, I think (no offense to the Ginas for the world). Hmmm. I am thinking. Thinking. Gina, it says again.
Me: Gina? Meh. What about Cleopatra?
Car: That seems a little random.
Me: Well your color looks a bit like a scarab’s back…
Car: No.
Me: Okay, what about Vivaldi? Cause you’re a concerto.
Car: I get it. No.
Me: Bernadette? Then I could sing to you in manner of The Four Tops?
Car: No. Gina.
Me: Fern?
Car: Hippie.
Me: Absynthia the green faerie?
Car: seriously, quit fucking around.
Me: Alright, damn Gina.
So there you have it. Though she was conceived in Japan and first named after a musical composition, she’s tough. Rather than be named after a Norse goddess, Tolkien character, or exotic spice, she picked her own name. Apparently she is actually a small but swarthy Italian chick, possibly a Martin Lawrence fan, probably from Jersey, who isn’t going to take any bullshit from anyone. And that is just how I like her. Damn, Gina.
Our motto.

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