Did you know that it is impossible for more than two people to own a car in Ontario?
Not inconvenient, not confusing.
Impossible.
We didn't really ask why. When Shelley and Steve and I walked up to the counter at the MTO a couple days ago, I said "We've bought a car together and we need to register it. There wasn't enough room on the form, so we need to fill out an Application for Registration."
The lady looked at us, quizzled up her brow. "Who bought it?"
"We did. All of us."
"Well, only two people can own a car."
"Pardon?"
"Only two people can own it."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Really? How come?"
She raised her eyebrows and shoulders, dropped 'em all back down again.
We could have pressed more than that. Had we all been less worn down from moving, we probably would have, to prove a political point.
But fucking hell. Shelley's written a letter relinquishing her stake in the car and Steve and I are the owners of a 2001 Echo with a manual transmission.
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Stick shift? I hear you saying. But Butch, you don't know how to drive manual!
After last night, I kind of do.
Steve drove me and our friend Rodenhizer out to the parking lot behind the experimental farm (cue porn music) and taught me to drive stick (turn up the volume), while Rodenhizer watched (it only goes to 11, friends).
I stalled the car. A lot. Stalling the car a lot was supposed to make me realize how easy it was to start it again, but my god, I think I might be a little traumatized. Such a horrible sound. Like something is dying. The engine, say. Permanently. But easy to fix, yes.
It'll take a few more lessons before I'm road-worthy, I think. I'm not the most co-ordinated person. It took me six months of boxing lessons to figure out how to move my feet and my hands at the same time. This kind of thing is not my forte. But once I get it down, it sticks like nobody's business.
Eventually, I hope to be able to make a turn without stalling.
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Speaking of cute, the Born Ruffian and I went for a long walk the other night. We got gelato, headed down the mess of Preston Street, along Dow's Lake for a bit and then up through the Glebe back towards Centretown.
Halfway between gelato and the lake, I started into a story about Fiona and Ruby. I tilted my head back slightly, held my hand in front of my mouth, and said "Oh my god, it was so cute."
And stopped. And started again.
"You know, I just realized that every story I tell about Ruby and Fiona starts with me holding my hand in front of my mouth and saying 'Oh my god, it was so cute.'"
I don't know why I do that. Am I afraid that if I don't cover my mouth, the cuteness, even in the much dimmer reflection of my words, will be so awesome that people will quail in front of it? It's a mystery.
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It was a surprise to some of you that I was getting a roommate. Considering the minutiae I normally regale you with, it really is a shock I hadn't said something.
Also a shock because I am a pretty big advocate of living alone. I love living alone. I have never been lonely because I live alone. You know why? Because if I get lonely, I call a friend. Or go for a coffee. There! Done! Not lonely!
Around the time we started looking for a house, M-C made it known she was looking for a place to live in Ottawa from September to April. I'd lived by myself for nearly 2 and a half years, and really had no intention of having a roommate.
But M-C is lovely and easy going. During one of the crazy snow storms last year, she ended up crashing on my couch a couple nights and a day or two. That's what convinced me. She stayed at one end of my apartment, I stayed at the other. We emailed a couple of times, chatted a bit when she needed something from the kitchen. Stayed out of each other's hair, mostly. Perfect, I thought, we can do this.
The extra money is nice, of course, but mostly, we are all really excited she wanted to be part of our commune.
I'm not sure if she knows how to drive stick. But I'm sure Steve would be willing to teach her.
