The car show

I love going to the car show. Not because I am such an avid fancier of automobiles - God knows I can barely tell a sedan from an SUV - but because car shows are such great entertainment. There are big vehicles such as this multi-thousand-dollar jacked-up, pimped out pickup with the sort of oversize tires that always make me think the guy driving the truck is overcompensating for fears of testicular inadequacy. The roof ot this truck is about ten feet off the ground.

There are little vehicles that cause me to wonder about the sanity of the potential purchaser. A tiny Suzuki motorcycle with training wheels? TRAINING WHEELS?!? On a motorized bike?
You are putting your precious, fragile child who can't even ride a bike yet in control of something with a motor?

And there are cars that are SHINEY! Cars that say, "Go fast!!" Cars from the future. This one is chrome-plated. Really. And it travels with a whole squad of guys who do nothing but dust and gently, gently buff it. If you really get off on polishing your car, are you auto erotic?










Every year DH will try on a male-menopausemobile, and every year he finds them undesireable. Here, he is pointing out that you pretty much have to fall into it, and then it's just about impossible to get out of with any dignity. He likes the practical, manly Ford Explorer that we already own. He did cast interested glances at one of the customized trucks that was so virle that you practically had to throw raw meat to it before you could get in and drive, but it turned out that he was interested in the mechanics of the drop-down running board, and thought the truck itself was just silly.

I knitted socks. People stared. I'm six feet tall and wearing a big red hat. Do you think anyone noticed the knitting?











It was interesting to observe the marketing approach for each maker. The Volvo dealers wore white shirt and conservative necktie, but no jacket. The Mercedes dealers wore expensive suits, tidily buttoned up. Honda reps wore polo shirts and dockers. Chrysler had lots of sexy spokes-models in evening clothes pointing out the special features of the cars in sensual voices, then referring any questions to the salesmen who materialized like genies as needed.

The colors are not very exciting this year; mostly blues, greys and odd shades of green. Ford has a grey shade of yellow that is pretty putrid. I think it was Volkswagon that has a dark, dark navy with metalflake that shimmers in highlights. I want a dress that color! Nissan has a green that shades from goldy to bluish - very pretty and I'm sure very expensive and hard to maintain. Someon had a cute little trophy-wife car in Power-Puff Blue. Very girly! Oh, and there was one Chrysler that was deep, dark eggplant, almost black, with rich, dark, dark red highlights. I wanted to pull off my clothes and roll around in that color!

And then we went to The Screendoor resaturant for dinner. MJ's parents are from the deep south. DH's dad was from S. Carolina. Mr. R. was stationed in the south. They all have an appreciation of southern food. The Screendoor produces superb southren food!! I started with a bowl of soup - butternut squash, collard greens and bacon soup. OMIGAWD, that is FOOD!! I slurped down the whole bowlfull and was thinking about ordering more when I realized that I also had a fried oyster po-boy and slaw coming. DH and MR. R. had fried chicken. MJ had fried catfish. I was told that in the south, it ain't fried, it ain't food. When the entrees arrived, conversation departed. The only sound was the click of silverware on plates, and a gentle murmuring of delight from my quarter. "Mmmmm. Mmmhmmm! Ummm. Oh, yeah, that's so good!" Really, it wasn't loud enough to distract the other patrons in the cafe, but DH sort of snickered at me. I defended myself, saying, "But honey, it has pickles in it! Oysters and pickles! It's sooo gooooood!" I licked my fingers. I ate till I hurt. Everyone else took home leftovers. I consumed my entire repast like a localized swarm of locusts.

I have never had more raw oysters than I could eat. Wonder what my limit really is?