What the World Needs is a Few More Rednecks (come get 'em- they live in my house)

My brothers, none of whom own a car, live vicariously through me and my cars. I get all kinds of unsolicited advice on my cars, my driving, and how I could better spend my money in car-related ways.

Possible improvements to existing car, or better yet, a new car:

"Oh Katie! You should get rims like those!" says brother excitedly pointing to a low-slung boat of a car, driven by the coolest black guy ever (or so he thinks). The wheels scream glitz with miles of shiny chrome.

Okay dear," I reply calmly.

"Katie, you should really buy a Z X 679 Chevy Sports Model with factory conversion fuel-injected six cylinder wingdings."

"Whatever you say, dear."

"It costs $30,000 dollars. That's not bad, compared to a Lamborghini. It can go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat and reach speeds of 250 miles per hour."

This conversation is like bubble gum- it occupies the jaw of the user and annoys the user's neighbor (that would be me).

"That's all very well and good, brother, but where am I going to come up with $30,000, and besides, when do I ever need to go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat (or round for that matter), and for Pete's sake, WHEN will I ever get a chance to go 250 mph?"

Long-distance car identification:

"Oh, look at that Hemi!" says brother, pointing to a large white pick-up three lanes over and five cars up. How in the world does he know its a Hemi anyway? I can't even tell you if its a Chevy or a Ford from this distance. Besides, what's a Hemi anyway?

My identification methods are heavy on personification:
Pick-up trucks with double axles in the back have wide hips.
The Crossfire looks like it has suspenders when viewed from the back.
Some headlights look sleepy, angry, crosseyed, or bug-eyed.
One new version of the Thunderbird actually looks like its in reverse all the time because the back end looks like the front.
and....

"OOOOO! That's a pretty car! What is it?"


Technical information about cars:
I am completely in awe of the amount of car-related information my brothers have stuffed away in their brains, but mostly I can't handle hearing it. Nobody has ever sat me down and explained how an engine works. Until they do the relative number of cylinders, horsepower, and other details of brakepads, torque, etc, will leave me cold.

Thankfully, my brothers seem to handle my lack of intelligence with aplomb. They gently remind me when I am caught in a misstatement involving front or rear-wheel drive and sometimes remember to dumb down the conversation to my level.

Turn and turn about- after all, I have long since started talking about horses in car terms.

"Wow! That horse can practically take a corner on two wheels!"


Assistance driving:

Brother: "Want me to shift for you?"

Kate: "NO. And get your head out of the way, I can't see through it."

Kate: "Don't TOUCH my clutch or I'll beat you!"

Kate: "Don't you DARE touch the emergency brake, young man! Oh, it was on? Oh, okay."


Comments on my driving:

My brothers affectionately refer to my car as the Hyundai Accident. They should really call it the Hyundai Accident-Waiting-to-Happen. That I think, would be the correct name while I am driving. They think I'm a horrible driver.

"You almost squealed your tires around that corner!"

This is said in a tone of reproach and ill-concealed wistfulness. Laying rubber is an offense punishable by imprisonment in Georgia. Laws against laying rubber boggle the minds of Steve, Dan, Dave (and Kate) and are only made bearable by laws that allow one to carry guns anywhere one wants without a licence.

During one memorable parade this past year a whole line of cars were passing the police station where we were sitting on the curb. Some rednecks the next curb over started hollering for action. In one unbelievably loud and glorious moment one of the muscle cars reved their engine, shrieked their tires, and left behind a long line of black rubber and a huge cloud of smoke. We still talk about that day.

car-related gifts:
A couple Christmases ago they bought me wheel-lights. I think they would have gotten me hubcaps if they hadn't been so expensive. Wheel-lights are little things that attach magnetically to your hubs and light up when you go over a bump. These particular ones flashed blue and where very much illegal for street use. Sigh. I did use them one time- to drive down Old Marlborough Rd at 5:30 in the morning to take care of the horses.

Now they live in a clear plastic bag in my dresser and make me think fondly of my brothers every time I see an eerie blue light eminating from my middle drawer.

The day before yesterday David left a present on my pillow. It was a package of decals for my car- six 38 calibre bullet holes. He had heard me say I wanted them. (I did? When was I ever caught in such an indiscretion?)

We went outside and had a interesting discussion about where to put them: say I was involved in a drive-by shooting; I was driving at 60 mph and the guy with the 38 pistol was standing to my left shooting at me. Where would the holes be? Was it a an automatic, or a semi-automatic? Say 3 rounds per second. Hmmmmm. Daddy said they would all be at head-level which isn't practical for decals. After all, I can't but a bullet-hole sticker in the middle of my windshield, or even on my side-window for that matter.

Sidetracked from the really important issue, Daddy tells with great relish a story of seeing an Egyptian armoured car in Israel after the '67 war which had one bullet-hole right at head level in the windshield. Did the guy duck in time? Mom looks disgusted.

I get cold feet. I may be amused by bullet holes in other people's cars, but am I really willing to disgrace myself in such a manner, even for the love of my brother?

If I do, I'll post a picture (DV).