PsiChi International Honors Society of Psychology KeyNote Speech by Miss Mopar

In 2011, I graduated from Gwynedd-Mercy college with a BS in Psychology and a minor in Criminal Justice.  I graduated as a member of three honors societies and the president of two organizations- Psi Chi, The International Honors Society of Psychology, was one of them.  Last night, I was asked to return to give the keynote speech as a new batch of students were inducted. It was a true honor and an experience that I will hold dear to my heart, always. 

As you may come to expect, my speech did not fall short on the Mopar content.  I thought you all might like to take a listen.  More importantly, I hope you all feel a bit more inspired at the end of it.

Good evening, everyone.  My name is Michaela and I am a 2011 graduate of Gwynedd-Mercy.  Six years ago I sat in those very seats anxiously awaiting the moment where the current president would hand the gavel over to me.  As I sat there, hoping I didn’t stumble in my high heels and praying I wouldn’t forget my carefully planned speech, I felt like I was about to take on the world.  Well, I have…I still am, and I’m excited to be here privileged with the honor of sharing my story with you.

To preface, I want to share a bit about myself.  My life has been a roller coaster ride of triumph and tragedy linked together by my undying faith that I am meant for greatness, even if that greatness is only in the eyes of one person.  I had a flawless upbringing- two loving parents whose sole dedication was making sure that my sisters and I were well cared for and well rounded.  I lost myself in high school and college was simply a matter of applications that I didn’t care to fill out.  Little did I now, it would end up being the place in which I would find myself.  Shortly after graduating, I lost something greater than myself, I lost my mom to an undetected brain aneurysm.  My hopes of grad school and my career aspirations were crippled by grief and new found responsibility. 

Fueled by the desire to exhume contentment amidst my heartache, I turned to my childhood dream of restoring an old Mopar.  Fueled by the desire to leave a legacy my momma would be proud of, I went on to build an automotive empire, which encourages young women to disregard the male dominance of the hobby and prove that they can hold their own as an automotive enthusiast.  I’ve since gained thousands of international followers, I’ve been featured in an assortment of muscle car magazines, I’m a guest blogger on the largest Mopar fan site on the web, and I even run my own blog and Facebook fan page.  I’ve been featured on the TV show, “Classic Restos”, and have restored three vehicles belonging to a Grammy nominated, ACM award winning singer/songwriter out of Nashville, TN.

I share this with you because I can assume that since you are all being inducted into PsiChi, the International Honor Society of Psychology, you have some interest in what molds a person.  We can talk about nature and nurture, ringing bells and salivating dogs, and which parts of the iceberg you see and which parts you don’t see… But instead, I want to talk about this moment…and all of the moments that brought you here, with me, tonight.  I want to talk about this moment…and all of the moments that you will have because of tonight. 

I share my story with you because six years ago, when I experienced the honor that you all are about to, I unknowingly laid a very large piece of the foundation on which I would construct my dream come true.  So, how does a Psych Honors Society help someone make a name in the automotive industry? I’ll tell you….

I was lucky, as are all of you, because my initiation into PsiChi strengthened the relationship I had with Dr. Gullan and the two organizations she facilitated.  As I was sitting in that chair- ya know, worried about falling or forgetting my speech, I had this little spark glimmering underneath me.  I didn’t even know it at the time.  Dr. Gullan knew it.  And, she struck a match and ignited that little spark and a short five months later, in conjunction with the Psychology Club, we held ‘Hot Rides For Heroes,’ a classic car show benefiting veterans returning to the states with PTSD. 

Amidst expecting her first child, Dr. Gullan dedicated hours to helping me pull off my very own car show.  Just weeks after having Grace, there she was with her family supporting me at the car show.  Had she not expressed such an interest in helping me combine my passions and succeed, I would have never been able to pull off ‘Hot Rides For Heroes.’

We raised an impressive amount of money that day, and seventy-five cars showed up.  Listening to those rumbling V8’s echo against the archway of trees at the campus entrance was musical to me. 

For those unfamiliar with the car show process, I had begun handing out fliers for the September event in May.  I would introduce myself to different muscle car owners at different shows.  Two gentlemen, who I still run into at local shows, could not believe that I was as interested in the hobby as I claimed.  One of them stood up, popped the hood on his ’69 Plymouth and asked me what engine it had.  I answered correctly and he proclaimed, “Well, you’re like the real life Miss Mopar.”  I laughed, handed him my flier, and moved on.  By midsummer, we’d pull into a car show in my Dad’s Chrysler, and people would greet me with “Hey Miss Mopar!”  I felt like a super star! 

When ‘Hot Ride’s For Heroes’ rolled around, people were acknowledging me as Miss Mopar more often than they called me by name.  It stuck and one year later, I launched my Miss Mopar Facebook Fan Page which is now the only personalized female based Mopar fan page on Facebook that has exceeded twenty thousand unpaid followers.

Had I not had the support of Dr. Gullan, I would have never held a car show and I would have never been deemed with such a prestigious title.  Being a part of this organization and a student at Gwynedd-Mercy continues to remind me that when someone has a little faith in you, your options are endless.  As you sit here today, you’re making a promise to yourself that your future will be bright.  It doesn’t mean that you won’t have to work hard… skin some knuckles and cry some tears.  But it means that you can set out to accomplish anything your heart desires.

To conclude- the road of life is a miraculous thing.  You never know if the next moment will consume you with joy or heartache, hope or discouragement.  But, you also never know what the moment after that will hold either.

All a dream needs is a little gasoline…and right now, you’re at the pump! You may travel flat dessert highways full of routine.  You may travel curvy country back roads.  You may be in stop and go city traffic.  Maybe you ride alone.  Maybe you ride with a special someone.  Maybe you let someone off or pick someone up at the next stop.  There is no right and there is no wrong.  There is no timeline…dreams don’t work that way, trust me.  But what matters is that you roll down the windows, sing…even if it’s out of tune, and enjoy every mile of the drive!  Don’t curse the detours; you might see a beautiful view.  Don’t fret the pounding rain on the windshield, for it is a reminder that the sun will shine again.  A fender bender? Think of it as proof that, like broken hearts and shattered dreams, all things will mend in time. You never know what a dream will amount to, but you’ve got to fuel up and go. 

I’m excited to be here tonight, sharing in the moment in which you do just that.  I wish you all of the best where ever the road of life may take you. 

Thank you for having me this evening!

Baby Steps

I’m sitting in my office, laughing…at myself.  Why?  Because I just twirled around in the parking lot upon bursting through the back door of the dealerships parts department.  I’m fairly certain that one or more of the people who caught the Route 309 red light saw me resembling something along the lines of a baby giraffe just learning to walk as I “danced” my way back to the showroom.  You may be wondering why I am sharing this embarrassing moment on my blog.  It’s simple… I just ordered a shifter tunnel.  Nope, I didn’t win the lottery.  Nope, I didn’t get engaged.  Nope, I didn’t discover world peace.  My very public self-shared celebration was because I ordered a shifter tunnel.  Some may call me crazy, but I call me a car girl that never ceases to dream. 

Well, maybe I’m a little crazy too…

So, why did I just perform a celebratory dance after spending a fair amount of money on some sheet metal?  The last three years, I’ve dedicated all of my time to restoring Mopars for someone else.  It’s been an experience and I’m thankful for it…but it didn’t yield me the thing my heart truly desires- another Mopar of my own.  As the D150 restoration concludes, and space begins to reappear in our little two bay garage, I can start to plan for a very special restoration… My 1971 Plymouth RoadRunner.  This resto has been years in the making.  I’ve dreamed of restoring the RoadRunner well before the existence of The Little Black Dress even crossed my mind.  The shifter tunnel prompted such a joyous response because it is the first part I purchased for the RoadRunner restoration.  A baby step, of sorts.

My 1971 Plymouth RoadRunner 340 4speed

What’s funny is that the shifter tunnel isn’t even for the RoadRunner I’m restoring.  It’s for my Surrogate Satellite.  You may remember that I picked up a Satellite last year at Carlisle after chasing the poor guy down, during a hellacious thunderstorm, as he arrived at the fairgrounds from Michigan.  My plan is to use the shifter tunnel in the Satellite so that I can swap the drivetrain from the RoadRunner temporarily into the Satellite making it drivable while we restore the RoadRunner body.

My humor has subsided, now I sit here delighted by my little purchase.  My heart is full of suspense and excitement as I imagine what the future holds. Life is short, and now it is time to breathe life into a fresh Mopar dream.  Here’s to the baby steps that every restoration requires, for it is likely in those moments that we are most reminded why we love this hobby so much!

BEEP BEEP! 

My "Surrogate Satellite" on the day I made it mine!

Power Wagon Wednesday

It’s “Power Wagon Wednesday!”  I’m not entirely sure if I made that up, or if someone else is out there looking for a reason to blow up their social media accounts with their Power Wagons.  Regardless, it seems to fit so I’m going to roll with it.  I like “Power Wagon Wednesday” because it gives me a warranted opportunity to share with you a little bit about my second “Foster Mopar.” 

The 1966 Dodge Power Wagon W-150 Town Wagon that I have had the pleasure of fostering the past two years will soon find it’s way back to its real home.  My heart aches knowing that I won’t be able to look outside and see it staring back at me, but I wanted to share some of my favorite Power Wagon memories…not only for you to enjoy, but for me to look back upon when I’m missing it a bit more than usual.

I thrive on car shows, but one muggy afternoon in late July of 2013, as the troops were gathering with their rumbling Mopars in our driveway, I had considered skipping the Moonlight Memories Car Show that we had registered for early in the summer.  I had a bad feeling, one of those gut feelings where you can imagine someone behind you, warning you to stop.  I almost didn’t go, but I threw on my Mopar tee-shirt and hopped behind the wheel of The Little Black Dress.  Among the last to arrive, we were at the very end of the entrance line.  Everyone was creeping up on hot, sweating against their vinyl seats.   As many cursed the dog days of summer, our complaining was silenced by the distinct sound of crumbling metal.  A driver had passed out because of the heat, smashing into the car in front of him.  Chaos evolved around us as EMTs arrived and car guys helped car guys in spite of brand preference.  My bad feeling was getting heavier as I watched a grown man helplessly hang his head as he surveyed the damage on his pride and joy.  Time passed and we finally made it to our place in the car show.  In typical Michaela fashion, I wandered up the main drag to try to find a bathroom.  I ducked into a packed pizza shop where four people waited in front of me to use their single bathroom.  What does this have to do with the Power Wagon?  Had all of these very strange occurrences not taken place, I likely would have never seen it.  For, as I walked out of the pizza shop (mind you this had become a fifteen minute excursion), there it was, backing up to the sidewalk I had just stepped onto.  My bad feeling disappeared. Rich exhaust billowed out of the dual pipes as I walked towards it, coming to a dead stop and basking in the sight of this monumental structure with a reaction similar to how I imagine that of those who first saw the sunken Titanic creep up on them out of the darkest depth’s of the ocean.  As I halted to a stop, mesmerized by this truck, a man, balancing a funnel cake on his hand like a waiter would carry a pizza, walked straight into me, clouding my view with an actual cloud of powdered sugar, which settled nicely onto my shirt.  Unsure of how to react, the poor guy clumsily offered me a napkin as he picked his funnel cake up off the ground.  I waved him off and pushed through the crowd to the gentlemen getting out of the truck.  I can only imagine what he thought as a girl, covered in powdered sugar, approached him, firing out twenty questions about his truck.  When I asked if it was for sale, he shrugged and said “It doesn’t fit in my garage.”  That’s where it all began…

The car show was a Saturday, a few quick texts back and forth with the gentlemen who owns the CJ5, and we were scheduled to go look at the Power Wagon that Thursday.  Fast forward through an emotional roller coaster of a week and here we are, me and four southern men, in a tour bus, navigating tiny Philly streets, waiting for the Power Wagon to catch our eye.  Evidently, they were as impressed as I was and after a quick spin around the block, we planned to pick it up on Tuesday.  I could elaborate, but I’ll do my best to keep this blog post centered around the automotive theme which I had intended… but trust when I say that this Power Wagon was a borderline miracle, nearly too good to be true.  Too many things fell into the perfect places and they continued as I rode shotgun while we pulled out of the previous owners driveway.  We stopped about a mile up the road for gas.  A less-than-comforting crowd circled the Dodge, admiring it until we pulled out onto the highway and headed home.  With no insurance or license plate, while firing on only half it’s cylinders, we cruised down the PA Turnpike at a steady 65mph.  Upon our arrival, we sat in the back and dreamed up restoration ideas.   Stretching my legs out against the splintering plywood, I envisioned so many possibilities, I dreamed so many dreams.  I never dreamed that it would be gone some day, but I also never dreamed that it would drive itself into the collision center of the dealership I work for…yet it did that too.

Over the next couple of months, my dad and I worked to get the Power Wagon running at it’s best.  A simple valve adjustment and that thing purred like a kitten.  Well, maybe less like a kitten and more like a mountain lion, but you get the idea.  We made little repairs like getting the turn signals to work and replacing the brittle hosing.  As winter came, the tinkering ceased, as it was one of the worst winters we’d seen in a while and the Power Wagon didn’t fit in the garage.  When The South called and told me that I would be exchanging the “Big Green Monster,” as they had deemed it, for the D150, we opted to bring it up to work to finish some last minute repairs inside.  As an ice storm commenced and PA experienced record lows, my Dad and I chugged to work in the Power Wagon.  One of my favorite things about that old Dodge is that it ALWAYS fires up on the first try…even when the high is a whole nine degrees.  We parked it outside of our body shop where everyone spent the morning oohing and ahhing over it.  Many people, myself included, had never seen a “Townie” in the flesh until the Power Wagon made it’s way into my life.  I adore the attention it gets and apparently, the Power Wagon adores that attention too, for when my co-workers all wandered back to their respective posts, the Power Wagon hadn’t quite had it’s fill of praise.  A crack in the starter solenoid caused contact to be made, and the Power Wagon cranked itself across our parking lot and up the hill, right into the garage door leading to our collision repair center.  One of our body men had to jump in and stop it.  When he came to my office to tell me, I thought he was kidding.  When I went out back and say the tire tracks, I briefly considered renaming the “Big Green Monster,” and calling it “Christine.”

It headed south that afternoon, only to find it’s way back to me.  In May, when it heads back for good, I’ll be left with some great memories, a few trophies, and a dead spot in my lawn.  I’ll always remember the ride home- how the wind blew my hair around, allowing it to collect the scent of the exhaust, how I looked over to my left and saw a beautifully bearded man driving like he’d been in that seat his whole life… it was like a real life country song.  It was my country song; the melody was that off beat rumble of a poly318.  I could have listened to it on repeat!  It's those moments, filled with the excitement and promise of a new Mopar, that I think everyone deserves the right to feel, because I'm yet to feel anything quite like it.

I plan to take the Power Wagon to two car shows this Spring, where I can relish in those memories as I share it’s story with those who feel obliged to ask me what it is or how on earth I ended up with one.  I hope you enjoyed the little bit I chose to share with you tonight.  And, I hope you all have a wonderful “Power Wagon Wednesday!”

International Women's Day

It's "International Women's Day." As a female who has been so graciously accepted into the very male dominated world of automotive enthusiasts, I am continually thankful for the positive reception I receive when I share a new picture, blog post, or news. I always appreciate the words of support and encouragement, and when the rare unkind comment is posted, I appreciate the constructive criticism. 

I've always aspired to set myself apart from other car girls. I do not want to be recognized for how I look in a bikini or how I can seductively lay across the hood of a Mopar. I want to be recognized for my car and my desire to take rusted up old Mopars and breathe fresh life into them. 

However, I'm far from a feminist. Because of the recognition I get in the auto industry, I think that a lot of people expect me to carry the torch for women's rights, use it to burn down the glass ceiling, and then resurrect, from those ashes, a corner office for everyone woman who ever fought for gender equality. However, that's not me. I don't want to fight for rights that could dilute other important aspects of my life as a female- like some day being a good wife or mother. There have been and will continue to be days where I spend all day at a car show or working with my dad in the garage, only to go inside and whip up dinner. Neither task seems unnatural. I can accidentally smear engine sludge across my forehead, then later I can purposely smear red lipstick across my lips. Again, neither seems unnatural. It's what makes me...me. 

I don't understand why we need special days to celebrate our gender. I'm proud to be a car girl every single day. I'm also insanely proud of how hard I had to work to be taken seriously as a car girl.  When the day comes that I become a stay-at-home-momma, I will be proud as hell of my well behaved, well cared for babies. I'll also be very proud of the home cooked meal on the table when my man gets home every night. And when the kids go to sleep and we sneak out to the garage to wrench on some old Dodge we've been working on, I will smile and be proud that I have discovered the best of both worlds. 

People can fight for equal gender rights, but where is the fun in that? Where is the pride in entitlement? The truth is, I don't want to be equal to men. I don't want to be entitled to the same treatment. Men and women were not created equal, had they been then this argument would have ended at Adam and Eve (or whatever story of human creation you believe in). As a society, why can't we just accept our differences, embrace them, and use our passions to discover just who we are in this crazy society.

I suppose what I'm trying to put forth is that I have enjoyed every moment of working in the automotive industry and, be it professionally or personally, I never felt discriminated against because I never expected a hand out. I never wanted one. I want to earn my place in the columns of muscle car magazines or car club journals, I wanted to earn my place in the winners parade at Chrysler Nats, I wanted to earn the recognition that I've gotten since I began my Miss Mopar page. I wanted to earn the kind comments...and the mean ones. Without working for what I have, it means nothing to me. 

Maybe women need to focus less on celebrating "International Womens Day" and just stop to celebrate their personal achievements. Celebrate what makes you...you- whatever it is. Celebrate what makes you stand out, not fit in. It's a great time to be a woman, not because of how much we make or how many letters are behind our names on our office doors, but because we have the means to follow our hearts desires, and in my case, we are honored to have such unwavering support for the male community. 

To those women who wrench- keep it up, keep making mean street machines and holding your own with the gentlemen. To those men who accept us in this hobby- thanks, I wouldn't want to dedicate my time to anything else! To those who think you can't be a classy woman with old school values AND a woman with bad ass muscle cars...just watch me! 

Happy Valentines Day from Miss Mopar

It's Valentines Day. My Facebook newsfeed is full of photos of engagement rings, red roses, champagne, and heart shaped chocolates. If you follow my Miss Mopar page, I can promise that amidst the lovey-dovey pictures of couple with captions expressing their love on your newsfeed, you will see a picture of me and The Little Black Dress. Why? Because as we celebrate love, there is nothing worth mentioning more, to me at least, than my 1972 Dodge Charger. 

My friends and sisters will see my post, laugh, and then list names of eligible bachelors with multiple traits checking off key points on my list of characteristics held by "the perfect man". My grandmom will joke that she hopes to live long enough to see me get married and someone will likely advise that I "cut back on the car posts" to stop intimidating the men I've dated. After all of that, and after receiving a bunch of texts starting with "so-and-so told me to text you, they said we might hit it off", I'll wander out to the garage with my dad and find some Mopar to tinker on. 

It's been my experience that it takes more to power a Mopar than a V8 and some gasoline. It takes love. Love for the hobby, love for the car, love for the manicurist that fixes all of my finger nails that the restoration claims. Right now, I am in a place in my life where I find contentment in fixing old Dodges. I find my self worth when they fire up for the first time. I find my fulfillment when I cruise down open roads, the rumble of the engine providing the soundtrack to my own personal RomCom. I've tweeted this many times and I still believe it to be true- "I will know love when I look at a man and feel what I feel when I looked at the Little Black Dress." 

Now, to be clear- my Dodge and I don't share the type of romantic love that Valentines Day is meant to represent, obviously. But, the idea of this post is that I've never needed validation in the form of flowers or chocolates...I get it in the form of my Mopar. And for right now, though I often claim to be "an aspiring housewife," I prefer it that way. So to those alone today, and even to those celebrating with significant others, we dedicate time and patience and love to our hobby of automotive restorations, why not celebrate that as well! Love is something that most people spend their whole life chasing, but this year...I'm gonna drive it. I'm gonna slip behind the wheel of The LBD, smile as the aroma of carbureted exhaust fumes embrace me like open arms...and drive. Like always, my heart will feel full.

I wish all my sweethearts who follow along with my page, and their Mopars, a very Happy Valentines Day!  💞

Happy Jeep Anniversary, Haylie!

Many of you who have followed me for some time now know that my enthusiasm for the Mopar brand is passionately rooted in family. The very first magazine article ever written about me was titled "A Family Affair," an accurate summation of how my Miss Mopar page came to be. The day I parked my pre-restored Dodge in between my dads Chrysler 300 and Dodge Challenger far out signifies the day I finished the resto or the day I won my first trophy. Why? Because it's about family. It's about sitting around a cooler behind your car on sweaty summer afternoons at car shows...with your family. It's about late nights in the garage trying to meet a deadline, cursing misplaced tools or bolts...with your family. It's about winning that trophy, collecting it from the car show chairmen, and turning to see the proud faces and applauding hands...of your family. 

My youngest sister is eight years younger than me. When our mom passed away, she was thirteen years old, and though I would never compare myself to the role our wonderful mother played in our lives...I felt obliged to try to be the best role model possible for her. I packed her school lunches, went to back to school nights, and ever took her for her drivers exam. I stood behind the shades in the DMV and held back tears at the sight of her disappointment when she failed the first time. I jumped up and down on the snowy sidewalk when she passed. Moral of the story- I'm far more invested in my baby sister than most others would be. That's what makes this blog post so important. 

One year ago today, after my dad got off work, my baby sister headed to a town not far where we picked up the Power Wagon to look at a 2000 Jeep Cherokee for sale. She had wanted one for a while and after a few failed excursions to find the perfect Jeep, I was hopeful that this attempt would be the last. Shortly after I got home from work, my sister, in all her glory, drove up the drive way in a junky old Jeep Cherokee. The window was being held up by a block of wood, the visor was missing, and a bad wrist pin seemed to tap in unison to oil splashing on the snowy driveway. Some probably wondered why she picked this Jeep but why she picked it didn't matter. What mattered was that it was hers. 

In the last year, Haylie worked hard to begin the process of transforming her Cherokee into the Jeep she had always dreamed off. She painted the bumpers and the wheels, added a bit of a lift, and customized the rear glass with decals representing her favorite bands and hobbies. Of course, my dad and uncle worked hard to get it mechanically sound. What was once a junky Craigslist find is now a Jeep that I am proud to park beside in our driveway. 

Watching Haylie's dedication and passion for her Jeep evolve has been heart warming. I assure you all that there is not a cleaner Cherokee this side of the Atlantic. I'm faithful that her automotive love will some day yield one hell of a restoration...maybe even on a Dodge Demon, her Mopar of choice. Just this fall, Haylie's growing enthusiasm for the car culture was recognized at a car show when she received the award for "Most Potential," an award that I had won just three years earlier with The Little Black Dress. The pride that I felt watching her collect her trophy just proved all over again that this hobby really is a family affair. I feel blessed to have a baby sister that I can share my passion with. 

That said- Haylie, I wish you and "Charley" The Cherokee a very happy first anniversary. May you travel many more miles together! I love you both!!