Car Shopping Turns Tedious

This is how it all started.

My wife, K, was busy test driving a Toyota Corolla when the above text came through. It was my sis-in-law, Kat, commenting on the choice of car that my wife was trying out.

Allow me to interpret. It means Granny Panties. She was referring to the car, of course.

Apparently, the two of them have created a system for labeling and categorizing vehicles of all makes and models. I will get to as many cars on this post as room permits, so enjoy!

Granny Panties cars include the Toyota Camry and Corolla. These are the cars that are comfortable and sensible. They may not be the prettiest to look at, but, darn it, they sure are sensible and reliable!

Commando, as in the general term one uses for going without underwear beneath one's britches, refers to Jeeps, but not just any Jeep. It mostly pertains to the older Jeeps you see with no doors, no top, mud covered with everything blowing in the breeze. There are a few older, larger trucks that fit into this category as well.

Full Size Bloomers would be cars like the Buick Century, a large majority of Cadillacs and Ford Crown Victorias, to name a few. You know. Land yachts. Need I say more?

The Mini Cooper fits firmly in the category labelled Control Top Thongs. Never heard of these? Me neither until recently. Why? Well, it's economical and good on gas, but sporty and fun all at the same time.

Tighty-whiteys are the nerdy cars. C'mon! You know what I mean. Think Volvo sedans. These are the "safe" cars. Something your accountant would probably be seen driving.

Boxers, loose and relaxed, let things fall where they may. Non-Wrangler Jeeps can be placed into this category, as can Toyota Highlanders.

Approximately 99 percent of all minivans fit squarely into the Maternity Panties category. As my sis-in-law says, face it, at some point they're simply inevitable, whether you admit it or not.

Underoos are the cars that scream "I don't wanna grow up!" I know you've seen the old man in the red convertible Camaro.

So, I leave this blog entry still "carless." What will we end up with? K won't let me embarrass myself with Underoos. I pray we're not Maternity Panties! Needless to say, we have yet to find our new car.

Effective Interrogation Techniques

This is a special emergency broadcast alert and a dire warning to all men -- beware of the chick car!

I took on the monumental task of helping my parents move sofas, furniture and other miscellaneous household items from house to house... To house... To house. Instead of riding in the truck, I got stuck driving the chick car.

What, you may be asking, is the chick car? Well, let me tell you.

The chick car is the car relegated to transporting wives, mothers, sisters, girlfriends (for those that are not married) and other persons that, basically, are not male. The car I drove should not have been a chick car for the simple fact that I was in it. However, once a vehicle has been dubbed "the chick car," there's no changing it. Trust me, I tried.

And what goes on on the chick car? Talking. Chit-chat. Q&A time. Non-stop, until the vehicle reaches its intended destination.

As the driver, my job was to focus on the road ahead and get us safely to the next house. I strained and concentrated on driving as questions and comments were hurled, flying like super bouncy balls ricocheting off the insides of the car.

At some point, I made the monumental error of invoking the "bro code," announced such and shut up. The car went deathly quiet as my sister and mother stared at me, sizing me up.

"The chick car overrides the 'bro code,' as you call it," my sister said eerily.

"Start talking, bucko, or the consequences will be dire," my mother said from the back seat.

I swallowed hard. I nearly wet myself. I also nearly ran off the road! You could have cut the tension with a knife!

The government really should look into this. I've heard waterboarding is an effective interrogation technique. The chick car, while also inhumane, may be a bit more effective.

Driving Miss Daisy

My 15 year-old son recently got his driver's permit. This, in and of itself, is a problem. Luckily though, he's not turning out to be a chip off the old block!

Unlike his father, he did not have a spectacular accident his first day driving with a permit. In my defense, it was dark. Also, my father, mother and both my sisters were distracting me. Add to that a tow truck driver, towing a school bus, who was clearly over the double yellow line and you get disaster. The real deal-sealer, though, was the swinging school bus door being wide open! It was the swinging door that actually ripped down the side of my Dad's leviathan station wagon that I happened to be driving.

Regardless, it's more of a problem for me than it is for my wife. She really doesn't enjoy driving.

Me? I love to drive! I love automatics, but prefer straight drives. I like station wagons, trucks and sports cars. I like diesel and gas powered vehicles. I'm not big on minivans, but I've driven those too!

The car has not yet been made that I can't handle. I've driven Hondas, VW's, Chevrolets, Fords, Porsches, Land Rovers, Mazdas, Pontiacs, Saabs, Toyotas, Acuras... Well, you get the idea.

On a side note, I've not yet had the pleasure to drive a Jaguar, Lamborghini or Maserati. If any of my readers have one of these fine vehicles and need it test driven for speed, endurance and agility... Feel free to contact me.

This, of course, is the root of the problem.

I'm torn between being a good dad and letting my inexperienced son drive my car and being an avid car enthusiast who doesn't want to share his baby. Not only that, I hate being a passenger. I'd much rather be the one behind the wheel.

For now, I'm opting to be a good dad and allow my son to chauffeur me around High Point. Luckily, the NC Department of Motor Vehicles requires me to be in the front seat while he's driving.

Miss Daisy, I am not.

Tattoos Are Taking Over the World

I'm back on car rider duty at school. That was one of my original duties earlier in the year. I have made two very interesting observations while on morning car rider duty.

First is that no one, and I mean NO ONE, drives a manual transmission vehicle any more. Out of all the cars that come through dropping kids off at our school, I have seen three straight drives among them. The second is that it seems as though everyone has a tattoo these days.

The first observation is simply shameful. There are very few things that exist in this world that can compare with the thrill of maneuvering a straight drive (anything) through the twists, turns, stops and starts of city driving. Even better is when you get that same vehicle out on the highway, shift into fifth (or sixth) and just simply go, go, go.

And furthermore... Nevermind. We'll save that neurosis for later.

As for the second observation, it amazes me how many moms and dads sport tattoos upon their bodies. I've seen them on shoulders, arms, wrists, necks, legs, ankles and feet. Any other tattoos in any other places are none of my business. And they're all different, too! Like snowflakes, I've never seen two just alike.

As for the actual tattoos, I question the ones that are oriental characters. I'm convinced that somewhere out there is a tattoo artist laughing his you-know-what off because the guy who thinks he's sporting a tattoo that says "stud muffin" is really walking around with a tattoo that says, "butter muffin."

Now with my new part time job, I see even more people on a regular basis with all sorts of tattoos. I still haven't seen the same tattoo twice. Some of them seem to be in Spanish, as well as the occasional oriental character. Some seem quite simple and small, and yet others are quite ornate and, I dare say, borderline on sheer artistry.

Naturally I've decided that I'm going to have to join the ranks of the star-belly sneetches and have my own metaphorical star upon my belly. However, it's not going to be a tiger, snake, barbed wire, oriental character, butterfly or initials. It's not even going to be on my belly! It certainly won't be a star, though that might be kinda cool in a Seuss-ish sort of way. Instead, I'm going to have "Red hot smoldering volcano of manliness" emblazoned upon my shoulder.

There are only two small obstacles, which I think I can overcome, standing in my way. The first is that my idea is a lot of words. I'll either have to go with a really small font size, or start lifting weights to bulk up my shoulder to fit all those words. The second? That would be my wife and my son. Being my voices of reason, I usually bounce ideas off of them before I do anything that they would consider foolhardy, or just plain stupid.

While I think I got this one in the bag, wish me luck anyway.

Kicking the VW Habit

I've decided to follow the model that one hears about in organizations such as Alcoholics Anonymous. As best I've ascertained, the idea is to admit you have a problem first. That way, you can face it head on and attempt to tackle it and bring it under control. I'm adopting my own simplified, and possibly skewed, version to tackle my own problem. Hi. My name is Phillip. And I'm a car-aholic.

My good friend Al, who I like to play golf with sometimes, came over for dinner Friday night. During the evening, he mentioned a convertible VW Beetle that he knew of for sale. Then he went straight for my biggest weakness and mentioned that he knew about a Karmen Ghia that was for sale, too.

My heart raced momentarily. My disease took control of my brain and offered three immediate financial solutions -- bank robbery, a job offer with a six figure income or a stroke of lottery luck. Solution one required too much planning and a slim chance of long-range success. Solution two means I'd have to quit my current job, which simply won't happen. And solution three... Unfortunately, you have to have money to buy that winning ticket. And on a last note, I've given up Volkswagens.

"Sorry Al," I said. "You know I've given up VW's. They're bad for me."
"But you're thinking about it," he pressed. "You're interested."

Well, of course I was interested! But I'm sticking with my guns and I've given up the VW's because I've owned several, but they haven't been kind to me. Now I'm thinking about convertible Ford Fairlanes. I could fix one of those. My wife got me thinking about fixing up an old Ford truck. That could be fun. I love trucks. I've also carried on a mental love affair with BMW's. Specifically, I'd like to get my hands on an old BMW 2002.

Luckily, neither my wife nor my son desire to be destitute with a fleet of broken down cars littering the back yard with a crazy old man puttering around them and muttering what needs to be done to each. I suppose they are referring to me as the crazy old man. Nah...  Probably not.