I've been noticing cars a lot lately.
No one would ever remotely consider me a "car" person (I called my neighbor's Corvette a Porsch, for heaven's sake - a sin that was met with an incredible amount of disbelief and near scorn, heard in the form of a thick silence over the phone), but I've been checking out the rides around me more often.
It's not that hard to sit back and look at the traffic as I drive, because most of the cars are passing me. That's right - I'm a granny driver. Okay, I'm not that bad, but I'm certainly a stickler for speed limits and general obedience to traffic laws. This brings me to a shout-out to a certain Honda Pilot who pulled a double whammy on me today by passing me in a no-pass zone, double yellow lines and all, only to speed away at a good 10 mph over the limit. He must have had an emergency at home, right?
Maybe I get passed often because people just assume I am going to be a slow and crazy driver due to my ownership of a certain 1997 Buick Skylark. It's not like they can see that I am not, in fact, a septuagenarian who is three minutes short of a pacemaker, owing to my dwarf-like stature that prevents my head from making a commanding appearance over the steering wheel. This, coupled with a stringent adherence to speed limits (which are apparently old-fashioned now-a-days anyway) and my choice of vehicle cause other drivers to see an immediate need to pass lest they get stuck behind Granny Gertrude and get home a full minute later than they would have had they passed me when they had the chance.
I'll have you know, Honda Pilot, that there are several facts besides the obvious that preclude me from being an old person behind the wheel. In the first place, my car isn't nearly as well-kept as it was when my grandparents gave it to me (wow, that made me sound cool.). Should you look inside you just might (no guarantees, now) find a wooden dowel holding the glove compartment shut because the latch doesn't work (don't worry, potential passengers: just move your legs slightly to the right or take the dowel out and put it in between your knees to ensure ultimate comfort). You might see that the handle on the driver's side sticks when the window isn't slightly rolled down, preventing you from unlocking or opening the door on that side. You might see the dust and dirt that have almost certainly embedded themselves in the paint by now, owing to my lack of proximity to a car wash and my sheer lack of interest in frequent car-washing and upkeep. You also might worry constantly that the battery will suddenly just give up as it did two years ago in the far left lane of I-60 in Phoenix, causing everything to simply shut off and the need for us to literally coast off the freeway up an off-ramp. Obviously, I don't have retirement time and money for cars.
This reminds me of fond memories of cars past. I really don't have a memory of the station wagon my parents drove when we lived in California and I was under 4 years of age, but I just love the mental images it conjures. Apparently, it was a bishop's storehouse gift to my mother: no seats in the back - only springs, but it drove. You can't get much more creative and awesomely awesome than this: Mom put pillows over the springs and literally tied us into the seat with my father's neckties. AWESOME. I love the '80's.
Come to think of it, my mother is the world's most creative and coolest mom. Vehicle story number 2 from my childhood (and teenage years) goes something like this: 1989 Ford Aerostar started falling apart at the 100,000 mile mark - no, make that the second it rolled off the lot. The sliding door had no inside panel on it, exposing the wiring for the automatic door lock that didn't even work. The only way to open the sliding door was to jimmy it open with a screwdriver and slam it shut with our bums. This made for a lengthy wait during the jimmy-portion, so we usually just got in via the passenger side in clown-car fashion and made our way comfortably to the back. The "power" window on the driver's side didn't work, either, so Mom would gently blow hot air on her hands and immediately plaster them to the window starfish-style to pull the window down (and back up). And don't even begin to assume the thing had working air conditioning and heating.
Looking back at the aforementioned vehicular stories, I conclude one thing: older cars are way cooler than new, fast cars. Why? Because they have a story behind them, whereas new cars only have two descriptive words ("new" and "fast"). Bor-ing. I'd choose the Skylark any day, lovely little green machine, over newer and more disobedient vehicles.
Oh, and did I forget to mention the lack of car payment I have on my still-functioning vehicle that gets me to the same red light you have been waiting at longer than I have because you felt a need to pass me and speed, Honda Pilot? Yes indeed. I better get some respec'.
*** Casey just informed me that I spelled "Porsche" wrong. Come on, people! It's not like I spelled "Steinway" wrong or anything.
12 years ago
