Whose car is this?

Although I've certainly bonded with my new car purchased 2 weeks ago on July 13 (dad's deathday), I still can't find the darn thing in the parking lot.

Case in point. I'm sitting in Terry's chair in Mark's living room. A cool breeze is blowing thru the screen door. Our movie is nearly over. The credits are coming on so I look out the window. Gee, I think, when I spot a parked car across the street. I could've sworn I parked further down the street but apparently not. There's my car!

It was not my car and of course I'd parked further down the street.

That nite I make a second trip to the Willow Grove Giant Supermarket. I haven't exercised since Sunday when Scott & I swam at our pool in Long Beach Island and walked miles along the beach. I feel guilty when I don't exercise, so I parked as far away as possible in the Giant parking lot and walked briskly to the store, carefully marking where I'd parked.

After shopping and now lugging 3 bags of groceries sans cart (to exercise my arms) I was surprised to see my car in a different spot than I'd parked it.

There must be some way to find my car short of using automatic finding mechanisms. My first hunch is always right, the memory of how and where I parked it. I've gotta have more faith in myself.

There's a strange car parked in my driveway now. I go outside and examine it closely. It has enormous tail-lights and they are quite beautiful. When you look closely at the color it has little sparkles all over it. Scott, a former car mechanic, told me the sparkles indicate the car color is 'metallic' whatever that means.

It's got a silly fin on the trunk which is called a spoiler. To me it interferes with my rear-view visibility. Scott told me the spoiler has a purpose: better traction. For me tho it's like I'm driving a pretend dolphin.

I showed Mailman Bob my new car yesterday.

Where'd you get the money to buy it? he asked.

He was handing me the mail.

See this? I say. It's from my bank. Every single penny I get I put into a CD. The interest rates are terrible now - 2.25 percent for a 10-month CD, but at least I make something.

I asked about his daughter. She's dating her third cop. I guess she likes the feeling of being protected. We talked about Henry Louis Gates and Officer Crowley. It wasn't hard to believe what Mailman Bob said about the whole thing. I also asked him about mail delivery this summer.

It's light, he said easily hefting his nearly empty bag.

I'll have some mail for you tomorrow, I said. My preferred mode of mailing things is to personally hand it to Mailman Bob. "Just don't give me any more cash to mail," he said. "Or at least don't tell me it's cash."

"Oh, it's impossible to know it's cash," I say. I wrap it up in a SEPTA work order."

He told me they're always arresting postal workers at the big center on Byberry Road for theft. People make it easy for thieves, he said. They put all sorts of Happy Birthday stickers on the envelopes which shout out "Calling all thieves." Most of em are honest though.

Now if only I knew whose car that is in my driveway. Curiously my sunglasses are on the front seat and the trunk, below the dorsal fin, is packed with my New Directions' stuff.