Pimp My Ride

by Cathy & Patti

Everyone has their own driving routine. Each of us keeps our mirrors at a certain level, our seats in a comfortable driving position and our climate controlled to the temperature we desire.  We keep our favorite CDs at arms length and our radio stations pre-programmed to our taste in music. We designate our favorite cup holder and an alcove for loose change. Never out of reach are our sunglasses, hand sanitizers and Kleenex. (What? We have kids, okay?) Some of us keep our cars smelling Mountain Breezy and others, well... more Mountain Goaty. The point is, it's our car and we drive it the way we like.

What makes for interesting dynamics is when your car, your intimate home on wheels, becomes invaded by driver-side passengers. They've entered your personal car space, and by doing so, seated right up in front with you, have access to everything you do. You could tell them to sit back there with the Wet Wipes, empty Cheetos bags and countless water bottles rolling around the floor mats. You could ask them to wedge themselves in between your kids' car seats, which are encrusted with stale McDonald's french fries or cheesy rainbow colored Goldfish. But you don't. You let them ride up front with you and as such, surrender your domain to violations of all kinds. Not fun.

But you know what else isn't fun? If you are the driver-side passenger, subjected to the car owner's preferences.

Cathy:
When I first step into Patti's car, I am usually overtaken by the just-sprayed scent of citrus. Oranges, usually. Sometimes lemons. Either way, it smells like I wandered into a Bounce commercial. But I know this about Patti - her house is very scenty too - and I personally appreciate that she is the Breezy type.

When we decide to take "one car" it's usually Patti's since she prefers to have her own car and be in the driver's seat. This works out great for me because my family has one car and that would leave my husband S.O.L when we go on weekend trips to Michigan or spa getaways in Wisconsin. Besides, I can sit back, enjoy the scenery and take on the role of co-pilot. It's a win-win!

I've been called an "air traffic controller" while in the driver's seat before. I am constantly fiddling around with the air vents, the temperature (I'm cold!! It's too hot! Now my feet are freezing!) And the radio? That's what I'm known for. I have a button on my steering wheel - as if my car was made just for me - that allows me to easily and constantly change the station with the slight movement of my index finger. This annoys the living crap out of anyone who gets into my car, including now, my kids.

Anyway, it took me years to figure out how to change the pre-programmed stations in Patti's car. But I think I got it down now, so I am constantly poking that scanner on the dashboard. When she gets annoyed enough to pop in a CD, things get interesting. You see, Patti has about three or four selected CDs which are pretty much cemented into her disc-changer. These are Michael Jackson, Rihanna, 80s ballads, some remakes and some songs she has written on her guitar. That's it. It's either that or the radio. I love Rihanna so I can handle that - I'm a top-forty, club dancing kinda girl. But the rest? I tune out while Patti sings (that's something she does well, thankfully) her Lionel Ritchie songs. All of a sudden, the ride has taken on the feel of an Oprah & Gayle roadtrip.

I like all kinds of music depending on the mood I'm in. I love Journey, Stevie Nicks, Prince, Sting, Madonna, Fiona Apple and others along those lines but after you've heard the same songs playing on a loop for years in your friend's car, it's time for a change. After politely listening to her tunes (it is her car after all) and before I have to hear, "If you don't dance to this song, you're dead!" one more time as she Sits-n-Spins her hips in the driver's seat to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough," I throw the tuner into KISS-FM and start bobbing my shoulders to "Mr. Saxobeat"

Patti:
I am very scenty. It's only because I have a bionic nose and can smell the fish that was fried 20 years ago in my kitchen, or the milk that was spilled in my car seven years ago. Never mind I didn't own the car seven years ago; it was spilled and I do smell it. Hence, the scenty-ness! If Cathy steps into my car and feels like she is being raped by fruit, I consider it a compliment.

But let's get something straight: I like scenty; I don't like 50-centy. I'm not a fan of Euro house music or Katy Perry or "nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch-nn-ch" bass rattling my windows while my car bops to to the beat at a red light. Give me some CS&N, Joni Mitchell, Journey, Fleetwood Mac, or old school Elton. If I wanna get down in the car, I want Jackson 5, or good ol' Sly.

Cathy? Is a B96 club beeyotch. And when she gets in my car, I know she does her "good friend" best to tolerate my scenty 70's vibe ride, but she inevitably gets itchy and suddenly her fingers are flyin' over my radio buttons, and she is "bzz. bzz. bzz-ing" her seat into the "right" position, and she is shoving my ac/heat vents left and right, and she is opening and closing the window and/or visor mirror. By the time we get to where ever it is we are going, I am exhausted.

On the rare occasions I am the passenger in her ride, I'm fascinated by the apparent tune ADD she suffers. That button on her steering wheel is the most abused button on the planet. I don't think I have ever heard a song in its entirety in her car. Those poor songs don't stand a chance under her fickle, push-button fingers. Unfortunately, even though she B96's the crap out of my car every time she is in it, I don't get the chance to Carol Kinganize her car, since she is in sole control with that damned button. Not only that, but Cathy, much like my husband M, seems to have an aversion to a/c in the car. "It's gorgeous out!" she yells through the wind that screams in through the open windows as I glare at her through the hair that has been viciously whipped into my eyes.

But that's okay. I know there is much she tolerates about my ride, from its anally-retentive clean interior to the smooth strains of the Commodores when all she wants is some thumping Greek house music. Putting up with my ride means she accepts me the way I am, and for that, she can pimp my ride anytime.