Park it here. I’m not talking about your caboose, either. You know, the big fat red one in your…basement? I’m sorry if that came out wrong. I need to stop assuming that all of my readers are model train enthusiasts. Back to parking. I bring it up because I just can’t get over being completely and utterly head-over-heels in love with…my driveway. That’s right. I’m a driveway lover. Granted, I never, in a million years, thought I’d be so thoroughly enamored with something as plain flat and boring as a driveway, but yet here I am, down on bended knee, laying a bouquet of roses onto the rough gravelly surface of my asphalt beauty. The thing is, I’m not exactly sure why I’m so ga-ga for my Compacted Rock and Tar Stationary Vehicular Inertia Area. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve lived my whole life without ever owning a parking space. Or perhaps it is because I can park like a moron and nobody can say boo, except of course for nosey neighbors and/or ghosts. Fortunately, I haven’t encountered either as of yet. But I suppose there is a first time for everything. For example, spreading a blanket on the rock hard surface of my personal parking lot and enjoying a buffalo chicken wrap, or five, basking in the warmth of the lazy afternoon sun. Sure, after about two minutes my legs go numb and I have small pebbles embedded in my palms, but the feeling of knowing It’s My Driveway and I Can Lie On It If I Want To is almost worth the pain. Almost.