2000-05-05
Dear Diary:

There it was, the wet dream of every boy with whom I went to high school, a flaming red 1969 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray. I gotta confess that this morning, when I saw it again, I grinned in anticipation. I haven't seen the guy who owns it for a few years now.

A 1969 'Vette Stingray.  Fall to your knees and worship its beauty.

First time I saw this particular car, I was simply mesmerized. I mean, I grew up in southwestern Ontario just 60 miles north of Detroit so back then for me cars weren't just a thing to get from A to B. Nuh UH.

Cars were everything to the guys I dated back then, and through them I was inoculated with car fever for the hot cars of the 1960's.

And a 1969 'Vette ... well, let's just say that when I saw this classic car for the first time in ages in the '80's I was ready to fall on my knees and worship it.

It belongs to a 'Merican Customs officer who every so many years ends up working a stint at a border crossing near where I live. When I first laid eyes on this classic beauty (the car, not the guy, m'dears) my jaw hit my knees.

The officer started to ask me very detailed border questions; some officers just ask the basics, others play 20 questions. This guy is a 20 questions person, but when he saw my rapt expression he couldn't help himself, he started to laugh. Yep, it was his car.

It's a pokey kind of border crossing. I'll bet there are days when they don't get 15 vehicles come through. Neither of us was in a rush that day, so we started talking about the car, clearly the light of his life.

He said I was welcome to go and sit in it, if I wanted. So I parked my car and slid behind the wheel of his, fantasized about what it would be like to handle that much horsepower. I stopped just short of making vroom vroom sounds, but I wanted to.

Yes, I can be THAT immature. Go ahead, keep snickering at me. See if I care.

That was it. Except ... and I know I am making a much bigger deal of this than it warrants by writing about it, but what the heck ... except now every time we see each other we flirt shamelessly. Great fun.

So this morning I pull up to the Customs and there in the Customs lot is the classic 'Vette, a vehicle I haven't seen for a few years now. My flirting friend doesn't know it's me, so he strides out of the Customs office with his bad ass walk, the walk that says, "Hey, I'm armed and if you screw with me you're in trouble."

He started with the 20 questions in that drawl of his, looked into the car, and then got that wonderful, goofy grin he gets when he sees me. Great fun. I answered the basic border questions, we played a little catch up on what's been happening in our lives and then I left.

The whole exchange probably took less than five minutes. It was silly, light, utterly harmless, and a tonic for us both.

Ah, but it gets SO much better.

I can hardly wait until the next time I go through the Customs with my husband in his truck. See, my flirting friend NEVER remembers my husband or his vehicle.

So every time we go through the crossing he gives Paul a hard time, starts with the 20 questions until he looks over to the passenger side and sees me.

Then he gets that cute goofy grin, says, "Oh, it's YOU" and waves us through with just the basic questions.

You should see the way Paul rolls his eyes when that happens, the "do I know this woman?" expression that he shoots me.

Just cracks me up every time.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.