What is it about me that squeegee kids find so appealing? Living in da Vancouva eastsidaz ghetto, I've grown quite accustomed to the throngs of squeegee kids who inhabit every intersection street corner. I've seen frightened drivers flailing their arms in panic as squeegee kids approach from everywhere. "Clean window?" Response: A resounding "NO!" and the squealing of tires as ebenezer driver speeds off. Sometimes the squeegee kids have a little fun and pretend they're about to pound on the windshield with their stolen petro-canada squeegee. Other times they voice their anger, heartily shouting "Fuck you!" to the unwilling customers. But me, they treat like royalty. Well, not like the queen mutha, but they are definitely nicer to me. I'll be sitting in my car, jamming to the latest Backstreet Boys song, when a squeegee kid approaches me. Again, the same question. "Clean window?" I reply that I haven't any change. "That's alright mademoiselle, I'll clean it anyways" Mr squeegee then did the best he could with his dingy tool. A few days ago, again at a ghetto intersection, there was another squeeg-boy making his rounds. He peered into the driver windows of every car, waving his squeegee to indicate "you want?" He shakes his head at refusal after refusal. Then he comes upon my little corolla. I sat expectantly, waiting for the invitational wave of his squeegee. No offers. Instead, he flashed me the most angelic smile, which I promptly returned, then resumed his position on the sidewalk. Situations like this happen again and again. Why do the squeegee kids love me so? Maybe I should rally them all together and hold a "Should amber be our Head Honcho?" voting poll. Of course, it would be a unanimous vote, in my favour. Man, that would be so cool. I'd get "Amber, Queen of the Squeegees" iron studded onto the back of a patent leather jacket, complete with fringes.