Invisible Car

The other day, Ellen and I are tooling around Glendale in my dark gray Prius.  Having a lovely time in The Jewel City (which is the inappropriately flattering nickname of our home city).

A minivan or pickup -- my memory fails me a bit -- is slightly ahead of me and tries briefly to merge into my lane, only to veer back into its own.  I pay it no heed.  I'm the best driver on the road and I drive defensively against all the other nutjobs out there.  Probably, this includes you , dear reader.

Anyway, I pull up at a stoplight in the right-hand lane.  The minivan -- or was it a pickup truck? -- pulls up to my left.  The driver motions for me to roll down my window.  I do.  He says to me, with -- and how can I say this without sounding prejudiced in any way -- what I take to be an Armenian accent: "Your car is invisible."  What? I blurt, confused.  "Very difficult to see your car, like it's invisible.  I could not see you." I process this for a second before responding in my usual style: "Maybe it's your driving."

He looks at me.  "I don't mean to offend, it's just that your car is invisible."  "OK" I reply cheerfully, as the light turns and he drives off.  I just assume this guy lives in some Wonder-Woman fantasy world where this is his best explanation for why he veered into my lane.  Good for you sir!

Ellen and I now mock his accent mercilessly as I drive my invisible car.  I'm definitely marking it up when I sell it used.