I spent most of today with my partner looking at cars. Not for myself, for him. I don't drive. I never have, and most likely never will. You see me and cars just don't bond. The first and last time I got behind a wheel both me and the vehicle ended up in a ditch. Since then I've just managed my movement in other ways. I'm not fussy when it comes to my mode of transport. My feet are in working order. I'd happily jump on a bike. Public transport serves me well If I have a book or my iPod. I'd even be happy having a large Ox pull me in a cart if it got me from A to B.
Todays car shopping expedition certainly didn't make me want to run out and get my driving license. Especially if it meant having to deal with a car salesman. It seems as though the requirements needed to work in a car lot are - Short (under five feet five inches). Male. Portly with neck fat. Uncontrollable winking right eye. Loud voice. Coffee (from a vending machine) breath. White dress shirt with pen ink stains and a brightly colored tie. Now if you don't feel a sense of trust with this car salesman. Don't worry! Because they all place a picture frame of cute kids on their desk. This way you know you are dealing with an honest man. However, be warned - of repetitive speeches on low emissions and engine control. Guaranteed to send you into a state of unconsciousness. It was during these speeches that I wondered about emissions given off by an Ox and the cruise control of a cart. The question is - Who do you go and see if you want to buy an Ox and cart?
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This is my great pet peeve about life in the Canadian backwaters - I HAVE to drive. No choice. No public transport. Biking- will get flattened by truck loaded with what was left of the boreal forest until portly, thick-necked, salt of the earth logger with a family of cute kids to feed chopped them down. Hitching - everyone assumes insanity and will NOT stop to pick you up, even in freezing snow storm. It is a truck culture here. The bigger the truck, the smaller the penis . . . and judging from the size of the trucks around here . . . Some days I actually look back with nostalgia to the dreaded #97 bus.
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