Dooley Drop-Off

I suppose there's something to be said for the kind of car you drive. I've never been a big believer in it, personally, though I will admit to feeling a little "oogie-oogie" when I see an old man with massive chest hair driving a Camero.

Sorry folks, that just never did it for me.

When I was in High School my mom used to tell me that a guy would never ask out a girl who had a nicer car than he did. I believed (and still do) that this was her way of getting out of ever buying me a nice car - but ha! ha! - it backfired on her when my dad bought me a cute little red thang for my 16th birthday. She rolled her eyes, but he swore it was so no knucklehead with mudflaps would ever ask me out.

Now I'm older and I still don't really care what kind of car you drive...I only care what kind of car I drive.

Oh, I'm kidding.

I really never have been a car snob. I suppose it's just never been my thing. Drive up in a Pinto or a Caddy and it makes me no never mind. Your ability to wear anything under a 12 however and we may have a serious issue to our friendship.

Last year when I was taking Remi to Mother's Day Out it seriously looked like a used car lot, dealing only in mini-vans, was running a sell. I never felt like I fit in. I didn't drive a mini-van. Still don't. It's nothing personal, really. I've seen those commercials where the kids pop up that table in the back and flip their seats around to play cards and I asked The Attorney General for one right there on the spot. So see? I'm no van snob. But you should really see that Mother's Day Out parking lot. It's a proverbial sea of golds and burgundy's, sliding side doors and those little stickers that show there is a mommy, a dadddy, two kids and a schnauzer living in their house.

Be warned mini-van haters. It's not a pretty site.

And then we moved.

And Remi started a new school.

A really, nice, Episcopal, private school.

With the really cute plaid uniforms and navy jumpers.

And I thought - finally - my mini-van days were behind me. Maybe I'd fit in here. Maybe my little black SUV wouldn't be alone.

But it is.

It still is.

Because I don't drive one of these.

And allow me to go on record now as saying, "And. I. Never. Will."

Not there's anything wrong with a 2-ton Diesel Dooley. Oh, no. They are big and manly and I feel certain that as soon as you swing the door open you smell things like beef jerky and deer food, but they're just not for me. I like things simple: My little leather seats with seat warmers for when my hemorrhoids are acting up, my Sirius radio and my 6-CD changer that has things like The Frey and Praise and Worship music in it. Not something that plays Montgomery Gentry or Waylon at a single whim.

I don't know, maybe I am a snob about cars. I mean, what if one day some little guy pops out of one of those tanks and Remi says, "Momma - that's Jacob. I love him. He drives that big truck and his mudflaps have my name on them." I'm not sure what I'll do exactly, but chances are her daddy will have her down at the nearest Mercedes dealership before I have to come up with anything.