Parking pretty

I'm finally getting used to our new wheels. So my right-hand turns are a little wide and I still can't work the windshield wipers, but the real problemo is parking. The Pilot is big and parking spots seemed to have shrunk. I've seriously found myself crawling in through the passenger side door on more than one occasion.

Now, it's safe to say I haven't successfully parallel parked since my driving exam. Yes, I'd rather walk nine blocks in the dead of winter than struggle back and forth to park in an insanely tight, awkward spot while onlookers gawk at that 'chick in the big SUV who can't park'. I know, I know, I'm completely feeding the female stereotype here but truth is I have about as much interest in practicing parking as I do when Chris starts to explain how the TV remote works with the PVR works with the Blue Ray player works with the Xbox works with the...ugh.

My parking drama with the Pilot sparked my memory about my fifteen minutes of fame several summers ago. I was working for a PR agency and was meeting with a journalist from the Calgary Sun when in casual conversation I shared about some hilarious happenings from the previous night. Next thing I knew the story was in her column, Page Six, the next day...


Pick-up hiccup
Calgary Sun, August 2, 2007
by Kelly Doody

Today's Dating Dealbreaker has been pre-empted by something that happens long before one reaches that precarious first date.
We're talking about the dreaded disaster known as the pick-up line.
Page Six presents what is undoubtedly one of the most smooth, suave and sophisticated pick-up attempts this city has ever seen, involving two lovely, unsuspecting ladies who were innocuously trying to park their car on a packed 17 Ave. S.W. yesterday.
In a rare female moment of parallel-parking-gone-wrong, a valiant Don Juan across the street couldn't help but feel great concern for the two women, who in his eyes, were trapped for dear life in the car that wouldn't co-operate.
And, since it's no secret women are indeed helpless creatures, classy Casanova strode across the street to offer up his services.
Obligingly, and because we're nice like that, the women exited the car and indulged the insistent gentlemen in his offer to land the car safely against the curb.
But not, my friends, without first removing his shirt.
I repeat: REMOVING HIS SHIRT.
Then proceeding to hand over his wallet, keys and clothing to the stunned females, and sliding his shirtless body behind the wheel to work some tire-manoeuvring magic.
Now, far from leaving without making an equally as smooth exit, He-Man then proceeded to offer the girls a bar stool beside him just down the street, and - as all white knights do - the chance to meet his 'really hot friend'.
We can only sum up this horrifying encounter with a quick, friendly note to say: Get yourself and your jockstrap the heck out of my driver's seat. And for the sake of all womankind, we ask that you erase that move from your dazzling repertoire immediately.