Hot wheels Pass me the steel to-go cup — I drive a Subaru now BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

I NOW DRIVE a Subaru station wagon, handed down from my surrogate grandparents. In case you’re wondering, surrogate grandparents are these wonderful souls who take an orphaned grandchild under their wing and love her even though she isn’t family.

I’m vacillating between calling the car "Ice Queen" or "Martha" (for Martha the hippo in the George and Martha books) Or maybe she should be named just plain "George." But do I want a man with me that much? Maybe she’s a transsexual?

Naming a car — I think, but do not know from my own experience — is at least as complicated as naming a baby. Although the baby thing recently crossed my mind when I decided that the flu might be morning sickness, and my mother called to talk to her now-30-year-old daughter about birth control and advice on "doubling up" just to be safe. I was thinking about my high-school days when my boyfriend and I would use condoms and KY jelly with spermicide, which is this cold goop I’d shoot up inside myself with a tampon-shaped applicator. I used to hide it in this strange little British Airways bag handed down from the jet-set real grandparents, who are, alas, no longer with us.

But let’s get back to cars, because, unlike with a baby, I can choose my car’s name as my car grows on me and me on it. I assume. I hope. It’s kind of like taking it slow in a relationship and wondering what "slow" means, if anything.

I have mixed feelings about joining the self-satisfied, liberal, outdoorsy New England set who drive Subarus and drink dark-roast coffee out of steel to-go cups while listening to public radio. The whole image makes me gag. It makes me sad for my old purple Mazda — with its little PURR MEOW stickers and I HATE BUSH slogans pasted all over its cute little rear end — who is now banked in the Downeast Maine snow, awaiting what seems to be her inevitable demise in a demolition derby at the Blue Hill Fair.

When the mechanic who junked my car told me he might get it running for the derby, I said, "No way, I won’t give it to you." The idea of my sweet, feminine kitty car being bashed around by men spilling oil and gas and wasting metal and fuel gave me nightmares — literally. I imagined jeering Republicans as my Mazda banged around, the Kerry/Edwards sticker clinging bravely to the bumper. I imagined The Sweet Hereafter — only my Mazda had the starring role.

I once dated a guy who drove a red Subaru Legacy. He was going through a divorce and had a black Lab. Something about the Subaru and the dog and the blond hair all seemed so Vineyard. Yet, I have to admit, it was the chinos that really threw me. I think the only man who ever should have been allowed to wear chinos was Montgomery Clift. Period. No discussion.

So, thinking about my status in the new/old Subaru wagon made me think about guys and what I’d like them to drive. As I pointed out to my friend Erika: let’s face it, my Mazda, with its bashed-in passenger door and scraped sides due to a fight we had together with some porch stairs, was cool. It was ghetto hip. And girly. Kind of like Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby. Now, in Martha, I’m apparently a lesbian who likes to snowboard and surf.

Still, this car-as-personality thing can be helpful. If you’re out on a first date with a guy, when you know he’s just bullshitting you, you can tell all you really need to know about him from the car he drives.

I’ve made a list of guys and the types of cars they drive:

Sexy: beat-up pickup truck. The driver is ideally in a 10-gallon hat and listening to Lyle Lovett.

Opposites-attract appealing: F150 with a snow plow on the front. As long as he doesn’t have an American flag or a Bush sticker on the truck, there’s good potential here.

Asshole with a small dick: any form of SUV.

I’d like to date him for his politics, but he might be a little sensitive: Prius.

Get over yourself: luxury sedan. It’s not as bad as a luxury wagon, but still, get over yourself.

You went to Andover didn’t you?: Saab.

Cute: beat-up, ’80s-looking sedan that breaks down all the time. As long as he knows something about fixing it.

Even cuter: Gremlin. Do they still make those things?

Too-hip-for-words HOT: any French compact car, ideally a vintage Deux Cheveux.

But apparently, all stereotypes aside, I’m going to have to withhold judgment on the car/guy thing lest people judge me in my new George. And, for the moment, my guy walks. Now that’s environmentally friendly.

Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com