The Mister and I have been bad. Bad, I tell ya. We – well, he – recently got a wild hair up his arse and decided he was going to buy himself – well, us – something he’s wanted for years – a 32 Deuce Coupe. Yup, one of those bright, yellow hot rods that rolled down Main Street on American Graffiti, with Mackenzie Phillips in all her prepubescent, pimply glory hanging on The Greaser.
It’s called canary yellow, but it’s more like a canary that accidentally flew through Three Mile Island and never stopped glowing. I’m pretty conservative, and never really liked bringing attention to myself in that kind of “loud” way. But lately I’m learning – tiny steps, they say – to unabashedly rock through the neighborhood in it. I’m actually enjoying heads turning, dogs barking, and kids instinctively knowing that it is the coolest thing they’ve ever seen since seeing the heroic Autobot in the Transformers movie.
“Uh, but, why?” most people ask me when I tell them what we’ve purchased. And I love the fact that I can’t really answer that question. You either get it or you don’t. It reminds me of being a football mom, when other moms who were pondering whether to allow their sons to join football, would say “You mean your son has to practice EVERY NIGHT of the week!!?” I just looked at them like “You just don’t get it…”
And after our first car show we entered the other day and winning our first generic “winner’s” plaque….I get it. And after smelling the car when I open the garage door…I get it. And when my eyes light up looking at the bling-bling large chromey manstuff in the front…I get it.
A neighbor said to me the other day, “So now that he’s got his new toy, what do you get?” (Beg yer pardon?)
I just said “Can you spell C A R T E B L A N C H E?”