How could I ignore the boy next door

You know that song, don't you? It's the one that Judy Garland sings in 'Meet me in St. Louis' after meeting Mr. hot stuff love interest on the other side of the hedge. He's sweet, charming, well-groomed, and a bit awkward. And of course, all ends well and they sail happily into the sunset on the trolley.

This story is not about that guy. This story is about the new guy who moved into the 3rd floor attic apartment while I was in Italy. I don't know what his first name is, I've never seen his face, but after yesterday, I already know so much about him.

You know that guy, that guy who used to cruise down Gause Blvd in Slidell with his windows ultra tinted and DMX rattling their highly mirrored reflections? That guy who bought a Honda Civic and then had it tricked out with an exhaust pipe the size of a blender and fuschia pinstriping and neon lights? That guy who spent his life savings at Mobil One Auto Sound so he could get the subwoofers that wake the dead and make the living wish they were? The guy who has actually seen all of the 'Fast & Furious' movies and probably paid full nighttime price for them?

Yes dear friends, this story is about THAT guy. I think he used to own a Pontiac Sunfire. Something relatively benign that didn't sound like the apocalypse when it left the driveway, it was black and inoffensive, and looked like your typical city-mobile. Good gas mileage, small enough to fit in a metro parking space. That is not the vehicle that is currently parked in the driveway. The other day, husband and I came home and saw a very silly vehicle parked in front of the house. It was champagne colored, with the engine intake thing on the hood and the big raised spoiler on the back, the kind of car that you usually see doing circles in the K-mart parking lot after dark. We giggled and pointed, and assumed it was someone visiting Mr. Special on the 3rd floor. But oh no, Mr. Special came home that night IN the aforementioned contraption, went upstairs and came back down with his digital camera and took pictures of it and, when asked by my husband if it was his, he said that he had decided to "treat" himself by trading in his old and boring car for this new and exciting one.

Now let me say that when I was ten, my dad came home with a sports car. It was a 1990 Nissan 240SX and it was cherry red and stick shift and boy did I love driving that car. It got fantastic gas mileage and was by far, the most reliable thing in our driveway at the time, next to perhaps, the lawnmower. I have nothing against people who purchase vanity vehicles. I have nothing against people who take pictures of their vanity vehicles. (Sidebar - the guy who lived across the street from us when I was a kid had a red Corvette that he would occasionally park on the lawn in front of the flood lights and take pictures of it. Interesting.) But when Mr. Man comes home at 11pm and spends fifteen minutes revving the engine IN THE DRIVEWAY just so he can feel the pleasure of the vibration, I have to suppress a giggle.

We are a Honda family now, my mom with her Accord and my dad with his Civic and me with my Civic. And while I would still love to drive a baby blue convertible Beetle, I am perfectly content with my sweet little girl out in the driveway, keeping company with what used to be something made by Subaru but is now an unfortunately altered piece of machinery that sounds like a cross between a leaf blower and my Cuisinart with delusions of grandeur. The car, that is. Not my Cuisinart.

May your mileage be high and your emissions low. Why isn't there a 'What not to drive" show?