I have never been so wronged, for being so right. Just the other day, while driving on the highway an insane motorist honked at me for apparently getting in his way (I had to cross four lanes of traffic in about 600 feet) though my turn signal was on and I was letting everyone know where I was headed. He then passed me while giving me the dirtiest look possible; all this before HE committed the sin of all driving sins in this town, no signal.
Just so you know, I signal when changing lanes. Always. If I were totally conscious of it before moving here, I am vigilant about it now. It has become my pet peeve, my ball and chain, the sword in my side, so to speak. Apparently I am alone. What is so flippin' hard about flicking the thumb to let others know that you are changing positions/lanes/directions and avoiding a potentially lethal collision?
I've been avoiding transferring my DL here to NC. (Ok bloggers and readers, no turning me in now) I'm afraid if I do, something will happen to my left thumb and it will lose it's ability to hit the signal switch. If I officially drive in this town, will I become a non-signaler too? I just can't bare the thought...
Confession time. The real reason I haven't switched my DL yet is I'm also afraid of rejection and failure. That's right, I have serious issues with the DMV. Back in 96 when I moved to La, I went through the mind-numbing process of getting a current and legal DL in the wondrous city of New Orleans, with it's wonky streets (Charlotte decidedly wins that one hands down though - that's an entirely separate post, TBD) and its outdated, asinine Napoleonic code. In other words, they got their own set of rules that some butt-kissin', frenchy-lovin' bureacrat made up a couple of hundred years ago. In other words, all other known driving rules do not apply.
Anyhow, I take myself down to the DMV and discover I cannot "transfer" my licence from another country, I must start the process all over again with both a written and driving test. Keep in mind, I wasn't some green teen who'd only ever been in a car with an extra set of foot brakes and an instructor who needed a lot of breath mints...I had been driving for over 10 years at this point.
Needless to say, I wasn't really aware of the whole Napoleonic thing and didn't study too hard. To say I skimmed over the rules book would be generous. So, I failed. My husband (to-be at that point) was very supportive and even helped me study a little for the next round. After receiving my second rejection notice, hubby tried really hard not to laugh in front of me. Not because I failed mind you, because I was indignant, outraged and outright pissed. How could this be???
Round three nearly broke me. I failed again, this time missing by one point for not knowing how far from the end of the street to park. Let me tell you something about parking in NOLA; lots of times it's a free-for-all. Humpf. This time he never said a word as I crumpled up my results and tossed them in the garbage. I did go back and study, and studied hard.
With the written test over and done with, it was time to do the easy part, drive the car. At the time we were driving a gorgeous gas-guzzling, cream-colored, 72 Benz, with cream leather interior. It was a sweet ride, but temperamental, just like me. We hadn't the funds then to cherry it out and update it with proper seat belts so it just had the one belt across the lap. My poor driving instructor was rather large and the seat belt wouldn't fit across her girth. After yanking on it three or four times, she gave up and left it dangling on the side. I was so embarrassed, I didn't know what to do or say except apologize for having an old beater of a car. She didn't even look at me; just asked me to circle the block , scribbled on her notepad and muttered a "you pass" on her way out of the car. I had humiliated another human being just for a piece of paper.
So you see, I haven't been able to move on and get a new DL. Should I bite the bullet and study the law here, or just pay for an extra therapy session?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Father's Day - No Worries
I'm a sucker for holidays. I blame it on my family. They always go whole hog on holidays, I think to make up for the rest of the chaotic year when things don't always go right. Come to think of it, things don't usually go right on holidays either. There was the time the turkey slid across the kitchen floor one Thanksgiving, or the time the main water pipe broke on Christmas morning, or the time...you get the picture.
Regardless, as Father's Day was approaching, I didn't have any grand scheme planned and was racking my brain with what to do on limited time and funds. Since it fell on a Sunday, I knew we'd be heading to church with our friend Carolyn which was always lovely. She offered to let Kevin drive her new convertible which was a wonderful way to start the day. I decided as we cruised along the quiet streets with the wind blowing our hair back, to let the day unfold and go with whatever it had to offer.
The service was remarkably simple, sweet and low key. The sermon was on "woolgathering" and how it sometimes is a good idea to indulge in. Our pastor must have somehow known that it's my husband's favorite hobby. He had given him and everyone else there permission to daydream. What better Father's Day present is there?
We took our time getting back home and got some very important paperwork completed. Another check off the list and a deep feeling of satisfaction. Just then Ms. Southern Hospitality let us know that the 3 foot deep pool she had bought and installed was good to go and that we'd all get together later in the afternoon for a pool party. A party I didn't have to plan or execute?? It was starting to feeling like Mother AND Father's Day.
Lady Dragonfly, Ms Southern Hospitality's son's girlfriend, is another kindred spirit and decided to indulge myself and my daughter by bringing over guitar hero for us to rock out with. Her boyfriend, Sir Ease, kicked it up a notch by bringing out his massive TV and setting the whole thing up outside in the sunshine. I quickly did a snack run while husband continued with his nap. The day was now rockin' and rollin!
While the kids frolicked in the water, I channeled my inner Slash/Stevie Ray/Kim Gordon. Husband, upon waking from his slumber, grabbed a beer and did lifeguard duty. Lady Dragonfly worked on her tan while Sir Ease kept us posted on the US Open which was playing inside on the other TV. Ms Southern Hospitality cooked and was her usual hospitable self, grabbing bug spray, towels, sodas and such.
We spent the entire afternoon and some of the evening next door until it was time for their family dinner. The kids were starting to fade (or turn blue in the case of Dr. Egypt) so we rassled them inside for a bath and light meal. As husband and I were discussing what to feed the kids, Ms Southern Hospitality rang the door bell and presented us with a platter of food. I swear, I am not making this up; she so has earned her title.
I decided to let the dog out one more time before it turned dark and took a seat on the newly decorated front porch. Earlier that week husband and I were talking about fireflies, and how he didn't think there were any left in the south. He so loves fireflies and couldn't wait to head back to Canada to see some. Needless to say, the Father's Day fairy heard him lament and sprinkled our street with fireflies that night. I yelled for husband and the kids to hurry outside. We all took a seat and watched our lawn and our neighbors' properties light up with tiny sparks.
"What a perfect ending to a wonderful day" said husband. I didn't need to stress or worry about a grand scheme; it all came together on its own.
Regardless, as Father's Day was approaching, I didn't have any grand scheme planned and was racking my brain with what to do on limited time and funds. Since it fell on a Sunday, I knew we'd be heading to church with our friend Carolyn which was always lovely. She offered to let Kevin drive her new convertible which was a wonderful way to start the day. I decided as we cruised along the quiet streets with the wind blowing our hair back, to let the day unfold and go with whatever it had to offer.
The service was remarkably simple, sweet and low key. The sermon was on "woolgathering" and how it sometimes is a good idea to indulge in. Our pastor must have somehow known that it's my husband's favorite hobby. He had given him and everyone else there permission to daydream. What better Father's Day present is there?
We took our time getting back home and got some very important paperwork completed. Another check off the list and a deep feeling of satisfaction. Just then Ms. Southern Hospitality let us know that the 3 foot deep pool she had bought and installed was good to go and that we'd all get together later in the afternoon for a pool party. A party I didn't have to plan or execute?? It was starting to feeling like Mother AND Father's Day.
Lady Dragonfly, Ms Southern Hospitality's son's girlfriend, is another kindred spirit and decided to indulge myself and my daughter by bringing over guitar hero for us to rock out with. Her boyfriend, Sir Ease, kicked it up a notch by bringing out his massive TV and setting the whole thing up outside in the sunshine. I quickly did a snack run while husband continued with his nap. The day was now rockin' and rollin!
While the kids frolicked in the water, I channeled my inner Slash/Stevie Ray/Kim Gordon. Husband, upon waking from his slumber, grabbed a beer and did lifeguard duty. Lady Dragonfly worked on her tan while Sir Ease kept us posted on the US Open which was playing inside on the other TV. Ms Southern Hospitality cooked and was her usual hospitable self, grabbing bug spray, towels, sodas and such.
We spent the entire afternoon and some of the evening next door until it was time for their family dinner. The kids were starting to fade (or turn blue in the case of Dr. Egypt) so we rassled them inside for a bath and light meal. As husband and I were discussing what to feed the kids, Ms Southern Hospitality rang the door bell and presented us with a platter of food. I swear, I am not making this up; she so has earned her title.
I decided to let the dog out one more time before it turned dark and took a seat on the newly decorated front porch. Earlier that week husband and I were talking about fireflies, and how he didn't think there were any left in the south. He so loves fireflies and couldn't wait to head back to Canada to see some. Needless to say, the Father's Day fairy heard him lament and sprinkled our street with fireflies that night. I yelled for husband and the kids to hurry outside. We all took a seat and watched our lawn and our neighbors' properties light up with tiny sparks.
"What a perfect ending to a wonderful day" said husband. I didn't need to stress or worry about a grand scheme; it all came together on its own.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The tale of ancient treasure found in the dryer
The other day I was searching for bloggers to link up with (almost sounds sexy) and came across a hilarious post by a blogger mom entitled "Rocks in the Dryer". I didn't even read her first post and already I knew we were kindred spirits.
You see, doing my son's laundry is an exercise in patience, wonderful discovery and frustration. No longer can I carelessly toss his shorts/pants/jackets in the wash. I MUST go through every pocket first; I never know what treasure I might find. Seriously. In the past I might have half-heartedly stuck my hand in a pocket or two but it was more out of habit than anything. On occasion I still find a receipt or loose change in my husband's clothes which rarely turn out to be a bad thing so the instant reflex reach always kicks in.
Boys under ten usually like to pick up and collect rocks. I wish it were so with my kid. His continued fascination with all things Egypt, ancient, Mayan and now Roman means I find weirder stuff in the dryer. Miniature statues (note to aunties and uncles: we have plenty of baby Nefertiti busts) are the norm around here. Don't get me wrong. I still get excited if I find a rock; to me it means he's still got one foot in the door of regular-boy-land.
His latest thing is to draw his loved ones cartouches. (I had to look that one up) He will show you his cartouche, but he will never part with it. In other words, there are a million little scraps of paper rolled up and tied up with a rubber band with secret encrypted messages on them that end up as shreds of white dust in my dryer. I know he's brilliant and creative and wonderful...but rocks, I could handle.
It is definitely a boy thing though. Girls carry backpacks until they are old enough to carry purses and don't usually stuff their treasures in their pockets. I never do. Then again, I do have the black hole otherwise known as my purse to contend with. Wonder what's lurking in there?
You see, doing my son's laundry is an exercise in patience, wonderful discovery and frustration. No longer can I carelessly toss his shorts/pants/jackets in the wash. I MUST go through every pocket first; I never know what treasure I might find. Seriously. In the past I might have half-heartedly stuck my hand in a pocket or two but it was more out of habit than anything. On occasion I still find a receipt or loose change in my husband's clothes which rarely turn out to be a bad thing so the instant reflex reach always kicks in.
Boys under ten usually like to pick up and collect rocks. I wish it were so with my kid. His continued fascination with all things Egypt, ancient, Mayan and now Roman means I find weirder stuff in the dryer. Miniature statues (note to aunties and uncles: we have plenty of baby Nefertiti busts) are the norm around here. Don't get me wrong. I still get excited if I find a rock; to me it means he's still got one foot in the door of regular-boy-land.
His latest thing is to draw his loved ones cartouches. (I had to look that one up) He will show you his cartouche, but he will never part with it. In other words, there are a million little scraps of paper rolled up and tied up with a rubber band with secret encrypted messages on them that end up as shreds of white dust in my dryer. I know he's brilliant and creative and wonderful...but rocks, I could handle.
It is definitely a boy thing though. Girls carry backpacks until they are old enough to carry purses and don't usually stuff their treasures in their pockets. I never do. Then again, I do have the black hole otherwise known as my purse to contend with. Wonder what's lurking in there?
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Karma Chameleon
It's been exactly 30 days since the last post and so much has changed/occurred, I don't know where to begin except to say, we've been eatin up some major karma this week. If you believe all that voodoo and superstition (and I do, and not just because lil Stevie Wonder sings it so well) then we Clarks have so*me karmatic business to attend to.
If bad things happen in threes, then we took care of bad things for a while. I've always remarked how lucky we were when it came to vehicles and that our car karma was great. Erase that and add until now. This week alone we have spent well over a grand on our vehicles for some really dumb s*@$! We're sorry karma gods; can you hear us???
I know it's more of a guy thing, but a car with dents just doesn't bug me. To me they are just like wrinkles on a woman's face; they have been earned and add "character" to the surface. To my husband, they are bad. In fact, he doesn't even like our car anymore because of a few minor wrinkles. Most of the wrinkles weren't even our fault. True story; a crackhead neighbor back in Toronto got really zooed one Sunday afternoon, lost control of his bicycle and crashed straight into our car. Knocked himself down, fractured his collarbone, wrecked his bike and dinged our Echo. It wasn't worth calling the insurance company and we were certain he didn't have a dime (not a legal one anyhow) to his name. If that's the worst of it, I thought, then we got off easy.
I digress. We are getting ready to go on a road trip this week and Kevin wanted the car lookin spiffy so he took a plunger (he saw this on some reality show or something) and a hammer to the door to "pull" out the dings. I guess he doesn't know his own strength, and consequently smashed the window on the passenger side door. Ouch. A whoppin bill days before our trip. A minor note; he also ripped the seat upholstery trying to vacuum up some dirt. I didn't even notice.
Though we were considering a car rental, our Budget budget was just plundered and so driving the Echo it would be. Grandma and Grandpa then called to say they were sorry they couldn't meet us in NOLA, and would we please allow them to rent a car for us. Dang! I says. Well it turns out you can't pay for a car rental in one state when the pick up is in another state so that plan was off. Oh well, it was the thought that counted.
After a difficult night's sleep, my husband arises early to drive to work on the scooter at 5:30 AM, his usual routine. The scooter has been a blessing and allowed us some extra transportation without major cost. (see previous blog entitled Liquor-sicle). However, the whole joy in not having to pay insurance isn't really a joy when it comes time to replace the stolen scooter. That's right, it was stolen in broad daylight in front of Bank of America, someplace you would think would have MAJOR security.
I don't know what to think. Is it just plain, bad, dumb luck, unlucky circumstances, bad karma or dimwitted-ness??? What is up with the car??? What is up with us??? Should we cancel the trip and just stay under the covers??? Help me friends. Tell me something good.
If bad things happen in threes, then we took care of bad things for a while. I've always remarked how lucky we were when it came to vehicles and that our car karma was great. Erase that and add until now. This week alone we have spent well over a grand on our vehicles for some really dumb s*@$! We're sorry karma gods; can you hear us???
I know it's more of a guy thing, but a car with dents just doesn't bug me. To me they are just like wrinkles on a woman's face; they have been earned and add "character" to the surface. To my husband, they are bad. In fact, he doesn't even like our car anymore because of a few minor wrinkles. Most of the wrinkles weren't even our fault. True story; a crackhead neighbor back in Toronto got really zooed one Sunday afternoon, lost control of his bicycle and crashed straight into our car. Knocked himself down, fractured his collarbone, wrecked his bike and dinged our Echo. It wasn't worth calling the insurance company and we were certain he didn't have a dime (not a legal one anyhow) to his name. If that's the worst of it, I thought, then we got off easy.
I digress. We are getting ready to go on a road trip this week and Kevin wanted the car lookin spiffy so he took a plunger (he saw this on some reality show or something) and a hammer to the door to "pull" out the dings. I guess he doesn't know his own strength, and consequently smashed the window on the passenger side door. Ouch. A whoppin bill days before our trip. A minor note; he also ripped the seat upholstery trying to vacuum up some dirt. I didn't even notice.
Though we were considering a car rental, our Budget budget was just plundered and so driving the Echo it would be. Grandma and Grandpa then called to say they were sorry they couldn't meet us in NOLA, and would we please allow them to rent a car for us. Dang! I says. Well it turns out you can't pay for a car rental in one state when the pick up is in another state so that plan was off. Oh well, it was the thought that counted.
After a difficult night's sleep, my husband arises early to drive to work on the scooter at 5:30 AM, his usual routine. The scooter has been a blessing and allowed us some extra transportation without major cost. (see previous blog entitled Liquor-sicle). However, the whole joy in not having to pay insurance isn't really a joy when it comes time to replace the stolen scooter. That's right, it was stolen in broad daylight in front of Bank of America, someplace you would think would have MAJOR security.
I don't know what to think. Is it just plain, bad, dumb luck, unlucky circumstances, bad karma or dimwitted-ness??? What is up with the car??? What is up with us??? Should we cancel the trip and just stay under the covers??? Help me friends. Tell me something good.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Liquor-sicle
When I think of scooter, I think of a cool, well-dressed, gorgeous European man tooling around the Piazza on a vintage Vespa, his dark purple tie flapping in the wind. He may have an equally gorgeous, slim babe in a shift dress, dark sunglasses and chiffon covering her hair, riding on back. How chic, how sophisticated... how un-American.
Back in Toronto my husband rode a vintage Vespa that I had won in a major sales contest. He loved the freedom of zipping through downtown traffic and the cache of owning an Italian model, the epitome of cool in scooter cultural terms. His friends were envious. His best friend eventually bought a Vespa, another friend of mine bought one too. When we got ready to move back to the US, we discovered it was going to be a paperwork/logistical nightmare to get it across the border and regrettably sold it to another friend who was more than happy to take it off our hands.
Recently my husband took an early shift at work and required his own mode of transportation. We have been a one car family for so long, we had to deliberate on what/how/when to buy a second vehicle. One car families are an anomaly in this car-culture town, but a one car/scooter family is downright unheard of. Now I'm not saying that scooters aren't ridden around here because they are. But they tend to have drivers who are younger, college student types who are limited on funds. Some of them are cool too.
Taking into account the cost of a car note, insurance, astronomical gas prices and downtown parking fees, we concluded that another scooter would do the trick, especially since it will get driven ten or eleven months of the year, rather than the four or five months available in Canada. A quick search on Craigslist turned up a fairly new Honda scooter with less than 75 miles on it. To boot, no motorcycle license is required to drive a scooter (under a certain cc) in the state of North Carolina. Free parking, next to free gas prices and no paperwork...what more could we ask for!
I pictured my husband in his Banana Republic suit, driving through town, women stopping mid sentence to check out the sexy machine... Um, wrong. Apparently in this town men (grown men more specifically) on scooters are thought to be losers with too many DUIs, who can no longer legally drive and have resorted to getting around on a liquor-sicle, as they are otherwise and affectionately known.
The first clue should have been the snickers from his co-workers, men who drive manly cars, like SUVs or anything with the word magnum in its description. Our neighbor across the street plain out bust a gut when Kevin told him he bought a scooter. "You are legal to drive aren't you?" was his very next question. They just didn't seem to get it and neither did we.
Thankfully, our other neighbor, Ms Southern Hospitality, clued us in to its pseudonym. By this point however we had paid for the thing outright and have no recourse but to drive it back and forth everyday. The Fellini-esqueness has been sucked right out of our European scooter fantasy. Now it's left with a "My Name is Earl" residue. Bummer.
Back in Toronto my husband rode a vintage Vespa that I had won in a major sales contest. He loved the freedom of zipping through downtown traffic and the cache of owning an Italian model, the epitome of cool in scooter cultural terms. His friends were envious. His best friend eventually bought a Vespa, another friend of mine bought one too. When we got ready to move back to the US, we discovered it was going to be a paperwork/logistical nightmare to get it across the border and regrettably sold it to another friend who was more than happy to take it off our hands.
Recently my husband took an early shift at work and required his own mode of transportation. We have been a one car family for so long, we had to deliberate on what/how/when to buy a second vehicle. One car families are an anomaly in this car-culture town, but a one car/scooter family is downright unheard of. Now I'm not saying that scooters aren't ridden around here because they are. But they tend to have drivers who are younger, college student types who are limited on funds. Some of them are cool too.
Taking into account the cost of a car note, insurance, astronomical gas prices and downtown parking fees, we concluded that another scooter would do the trick, especially since it will get driven ten or eleven months of the year, rather than the four or five months available in Canada. A quick search on Craigslist turned up a fairly new Honda scooter with less than 75 miles on it. To boot, no motorcycle license is required to drive a scooter (under a certain cc) in the state of North Carolina. Free parking, next to free gas prices and no paperwork...what more could we ask for!
I pictured my husband in his Banana Republic suit, driving through town, women stopping mid sentence to check out the sexy machine... Um, wrong. Apparently in this town men (grown men more specifically) on scooters are thought to be losers with too many DUIs, who can no longer legally drive and have resorted to getting around on a liquor-sicle, as they are otherwise and affectionately known.
The first clue should have been the snickers from his co-workers, men who drive manly cars, like SUVs or anything with the word magnum in its description. Our neighbor across the street plain out bust a gut when Kevin told him he bought a scooter. "You are legal to drive aren't you?" was his very next question. They just didn't seem to get it and neither did we.
Thankfully, our other neighbor, Ms Southern Hospitality, clued us in to its pseudonym. By this point however we had paid for the thing outright and have no recourse but to drive it back and forth everyday. The Fellini-esqueness has been sucked right out of our European scooter fantasy. Now it's left with a "My Name is Earl" residue. Bummer.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Face It!
Something awfully strange is happening. I am "meeting" people in town and in other towns through virtual reality. I now have "friends" in various cities, though some of them I've never met. I am making online friends with people I've been phoning and emailing for weeks, to no avail. People I would like to connect with for potential job opportunities who would and have otherwise completely blown me off, suddenly want to reveal very personal information to me. I have come face to face with the realization that Facebook is the great communicator of the day and I just don't get it.
Until now I have completed resisted the phenomena that is online networking for many reasons. First of all, it creeps me out to have to/want to share that much personal information with the world. Secondly, if I want to talk to my friends, I call them or send them a personal and confidential email. Thirdly, Facebook was introduced to me by a high school kid as "the coolest way to hook up", which somehow seems highly inappropriate for a mom. Lastly, does anyone really care "what are you doing right now?" if I'm doing the laundry or cutting my son's toenails? (last night's festivities) Must I share that with the world? Oh, did I mention it creeps me out?
Why did I join then? Apparently I was the very last of my seven siblings to sign on. My sisters' weekly invites, pokes (what exactly it is in Facebook world I'm not certain of) and messages to join were relentless. My brother John doesn't even bother to email anymore and insists people "catch him" on Facebook. Even my brother Steve, who can never remember my phone number and who forgets to buy groceries, is a regular. I caved.
I have friends who, in the real world, would barely pass as acquaintances, yet somehow want me to see their wedding photo albums. Colleagues who were satisfying as contacts, now want to know what I've had for breakfast. When will it ever end? I thought perhaps I might get a gig or two, share a laugh with a real friend (note to self - my best friend has not signed on) and keep up with my sister's never-ending camping photos. I still don't get it.
If you're on Facebook and you come across my name, don't poke me or wall me or send a smile or whatever. Call me at home this weekend and we'll chat.
Until now I have completed resisted the phenomena that is online networking for many reasons. First of all, it creeps me out to have to/want to share that much personal information with the world. Secondly, if I want to talk to my friends, I call them or send them a personal and confidential email. Thirdly, Facebook was introduced to me by a high school kid as "the coolest way to hook up", which somehow seems highly inappropriate for a mom. Lastly, does anyone really care "what are you doing right now?" if I'm doing the laundry or cutting my son's toenails? (last night's festivities) Must I share that with the world? Oh, did I mention it creeps me out?
Why did I join then? Apparently I was the very last of my seven siblings to sign on. My sisters' weekly invites, pokes (what exactly it is in Facebook world I'm not certain of) and messages to join were relentless. My brother John doesn't even bother to email anymore and insists people "catch him" on Facebook. Even my brother Steve, who can never remember my phone number and who forgets to buy groceries, is a regular. I caved.
I have friends who, in the real world, would barely pass as acquaintances, yet somehow want me to see their wedding photo albums. Colleagues who were satisfying as contacts, now want to know what I've had for breakfast. When will it ever end? I thought perhaps I might get a gig or two, share a laugh with a real friend (note to self - my best friend has not signed on) and keep up with my sister's never-ending camping photos. I still don't get it.
If you're on Facebook and you come across my name, don't poke me or wall me or send a smile or whatever. Call me at home this weekend and we'll chat.
Friday, January 4, 2008
"Tell me about your car!!!"
We all know this town is fairly flush and what better way to say "I'm successful!" than with a flashy, bling-worthy, name-dropping car? There are more Beemers, Jags, Benz and Ranges here than you can shake a stick at. I bet 28203 gives 90210 a run for its money when it comes to automobiles...
Unfortunately, I don't own one of these. My car is the much less desirable, poor-man's Volkswagen otherwise known as an Echo. (mind you, it's the sporty two-door kind) Back in the driveway-challenged metropolis of Toronto, Echos are a wise choice. They are economical, drive well in traffic (we're talking hours of idling here, not minutes) and can fit in the most minute parking spots. We didn't have a driveway or garage back home and welcomed a cheap and cheerful ride that could be left out on the street all night.
Many agree. Echos are really popular in Toronto. Two of my very best friends drive Echos, in fact. So does my step-daughter. I could go on, but won't.
Not surprising though, I haven't seen many Echos here in Charlotte. I think I've seen a total of four in the five months or so that we've been here. What did surprise me though was the reaction I got when I pulled into the driveway of a prospective interviewee in my sporty wannabee sports car.
No sooner had I stepped out of the car when this gentleman exclaimed (and I say this in the nicest way) "Wow! Tell me about your car!!". Now the Echo is rare in these parts but it's not exactly a George Jetson-mobile... I swear this man had never laid eyes on this particular Toyota brand. I didn't really know what to say. "Uh, it's a sporty Echo that gets great gas mileage and can park anywhere" is what I responded with a "everyone in Toronto drives one" for good measure.
As extreme as it sounds, picture this. We are driving down a main thorough fare in Charlotte in a prosperous section of town when we pull up next to a Beemer at a red light. Not only is it brand new, it's got "Sweet Sixteen" and "Happy Birthday" written all over it, like it just pulled off the lot of "Richie Rich's BMW of Lake Norman". What sixteen year old needs a 2007 BMW??? I didn't get my own car until I was 23 and working full-time. Even if my parents had the dough to buy one, I very much doubt they'd sign me up for a brand-spanking, accident magnet car.
My 2001 beater (fully paid off, I might add) with it's unidentifiable Canadian plates has become a sort of badge of honor. It puzzles people. Machines too. Once, a couple of months back as I pulled out of the parking garage at the airport, the parking attendee stopped to ask me which state it was from. I told her PEI. The computer didn't recognize it and settled on PA instead. Ha! It's not only sporty, but mysterious too.
Unfortunately, I don't own one of these. My car is the much less desirable, poor-man's Volkswagen otherwise known as an Echo. (mind you, it's the sporty two-door kind) Back in the driveway-challenged metropolis of Toronto, Echos are a wise choice. They are economical, drive well in traffic (we're talking hours of idling here, not minutes) and can fit in the most minute parking spots. We didn't have a driveway or garage back home and welcomed a cheap and cheerful ride that could be left out on the street all night.
Many agree. Echos are really popular in Toronto. Two of my very best friends drive Echos, in fact. So does my step-daughter. I could go on, but won't.
Not surprising though, I haven't seen many Echos here in Charlotte. I think I've seen a total of four in the five months or so that we've been here. What did surprise me though was the reaction I got when I pulled into the driveway of a prospective interviewee in my sporty wannabee sports car.
No sooner had I stepped out of the car when this gentleman exclaimed (and I say this in the nicest way) "Wow! Tell me about your car!!". Now the Echo is rare in these parts but it's not exactly a George Jetson-mobile... I swear this man had never laid eyes on this particular Toyota brand. I didn't really know what to say. "Uh, it's a sporty Echo that gets great gas mileage and can park anywhere" is what I responded with a "everyone in Toronto drives one" for good measure.
As extreme as it sounds, picture this. We are driving down a main thorough fare in Charlotte in a prosperous section of town when we pull up next to a Beemer at a red light. Not only is it brand new, it's got "Sweet Sixteen" and "Happy Birthday" written all over it, like it just pulled off the lot of "Richie Rich's BMW of Lake Norman". What sixteen year old needs a 2007 BMW??? I didn't get my own car until I was 23 and working full-time. Even if my parents had the dough to buy one, I very much doubt they'd sign me up for a brand-spanking, accident magnet car.
My 2001 beater (fully paid off, I might add) with it's unidentifiable Canadian plates has become a sort of badge of honor. It puzzles people. Machines too. Once, a couple of months back as I pulled out of the parking garage at the airport, the parking attendee stopped to ask me which state it was from. I told her PEI. The computer didn't recognize it and settled on PA instead. Ha! It's not only sporty, but mysterious too.
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