A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || July 1, 2005 || 12:54 pm

Something shiny and new.

Last weekend I bought a payment book worth several thousand dollars! A van just happened to come with it. Or is it, ‘they threw in a van for free!’? Either way, an ar-ar follows. Because, snappy readers, I am clever and original and not cliche at all.

YES, I caved. I TOTALLY ate my “NO MINIVANS EVER, nuh-UH.” words.

“This had to be an act of God,” I overheard Maxim telling our pastor and good friend D on the phone, “because she has said from the very beginning that I would never, ever grease her into a minivan.” And the hippie has been trying from the very beginning of our marital union, folks. His One Greatest Fantasy is to give the Punk Rock Girl a free-love makeover complete with all the accessories: Small love bus, hairy pits, patchouli smell (GAG! DOUBLE GAG!), flowy skirts, non-carnivorous behavior and more peaceful outlook. I tell him that were I to fold to his will and submit to such heinousness, he would quickly tire of me and set out in search of another Punk Rock Girl to contend with. Silly man.

(at one point, I foolishly began pondering the whole commune idea, but when I figured out that I’d have to ay)make my own tequila and bee) share it I quickly rubber-stamped that hooha with a great big ole ‘WHY, FUCK NO!’)

I set out on this vehicle shopping expedition with a great deal of chagrin and bitterness and suspicion and trepidation and despair and annoyance and sorrow and fatigue and any other terminology you can come up with to sum up a negative state of mind. PLUS utter, abject terror. You see, in the past I’ve been afforded the luxury of going out with nothing more than high hopes and a price range in mind before pointing to something and saying delightedly, “Ohhhh, I like that. I’ll take it with a sparkly silver bow, please. And gas that puppy way the fuck up, Salesly McWhoreperson.” Really, it was painfully simple. Now, swap the wordage around^ because we have four children to haul about and, ever since the Great Tractor Incident, I am conscious of silly things like SAFETY RATINGS and SIDE IMPACT mumbo-jumbo and AIRBAG TO PERSON RATIOS. My God, someone push me over, because all this ‘being a grownup’ shit is killing me.

I was firm in my stance as to what types of vehicles I would and wouldn’t consider. Maxim started out the day going out of his way to rain on my parade. Things quickly escalated to the point where we were giving one another the stinkeye in anticipation of swapping blows. We went to lot after lot, each stop exponentially increasing our frustration and aggravation both at the process and one another. We clearly had different visions, and I tried to patiently remind Maxim that we were shopping for MY vehicle, so he was there in an advisory capacity and his job was to mostly look pretty and say smart things when called upon to do so.

And oh yeah, to keep the salesmen from rucking up the skirt of my checkbook and fucking it violently simply because I Have A Vagina And As A Result Am Incapable Of Big Man-Purchases Like Firearms And Automobiles. Because, like it or not, I live in a man’s world, yo. If Maxim wasn’t the token male in attendance, my daddy would be. Thank God for Maxim, y’all, because car shopping with my dad –while highly, highly amusing– is embarrassing in a way all its own.

Another story for another time, fellas.

At one point, I shreiked, “Fuck all this noise! Just take the cripple home! I will nevernevernever leave the house again! You tell the kids that they’ll have to walk everywhere! You explain to them why mommy cannot go back to work and all extracurricular activities must come to an end! I’ll just become internet hermit who drools and talks to herself a lot! JUST TAKE ME HOME, BECAUSE I CANNOT WORK IN THESE CONDITIONS!”

There was pulling off the road, there was buying me a Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by PepsiCo!), there was us putting on our ‘Yes, I Am A Reasonable Human Being’ masks and duking it out mano y mano in the parking lot respectfully hearing one another out. Then we hugged, kissed, slugged one another on the bicep while saying something Bogartesque like, “I love ya kid…” and decided to make one last stop at one last dealership before calling it a day.

As soon as we pulled into the lot, I saw it. It had a glow, the angels sang on high, and a heavenly voice (kinda sounded like Emma Thompson) whispered gently, “Buy me, for I am here to assuage your consumer-related angst, my child.” The reaction was that pressing and immediate, no lie, so I barked “Get the keys, let’s driiiiive!” at the strange and scary salesman.

::not THE vehicle, folks, just a very good approximation of it::

Didn’t look quite like a van, didn’t look quite like an SUV, thereby satisfying the requirements of both Maxim and me. What sold me full, before I even knew the specifics like mileage and features, was the color.

Only a few of you will understand what I am about to say. Those of you who do in fact understand will get it completely: I never had a ‘Hello, Kitty’ phase. The color of this fan is my own personal version of a ‘Hello, Kitty’ phase. Maxim went out to the driveway the morning after we bought it and stood, coffee in hand, observing my minty greenblue-bluegreen new vehicle appraisingly.

“The color doesn’t look half so gay today as it did yesterday.”

Drat. He’s reasoning with himself. That means I’ll have to start hiding the keys or he will disappear to go make out with himself in my beautiful new mode of transport.

We didn’t let on to the kids that we were going car shopping. We just called ahead, said, “Everybody wait in the drive! We’ll be home in a minute to get you. There are errands to run.” They all just about crapped themselves when we pulled in. Later in the evening, Sam and I sat talking in the dining room.

“You know, mom, it almost seems like we’re rich. We got a big house and now we have a big car.”

“Psh, harbor no illusions, kid. All that just means we are yet one step closer to eating dog food.”

Okay, so I exaggerate. But I want my younguns to seek gainful employment as quickly as humanly possible. Fear of having to consume kibble is one means to that end.

As I was driving around (shh, don’t tell. i still have the cast on.) yesterday, I started composing a funeral dirge for my Cool. I want it to have a proper, respectful burial, after all.

Then I had an epiphany: I am not ushering in the death of my Cool. I am just sending it on a lengthy vacation. Far Away. Without me.

It will come back when my children are driving and I can trade out of the minivan. You know, when I am further into middle age and look somewhat goofy driving something sleek and sporty. But I’ve never let looking somewhat goofy stop me before. Embracing my dorkiness is the essence of my Cool, people. The very essence of it.

And don’t you forget it. At the cost of your kneecapses, don’t you dare forget it.

^simply painful, der. you people are slowing up on me.

11 worked it out »

  1. skillzy 7.1.2005

    OK that’s not even a stealth minivan, that’s a full-on soccer mommy ride. I’ll be hitting the WalMart this weekend to pick you up some decals for the back window.

    See you at the next Pampered Chef party, you UNCOOL CONFORMIST DRONE!


  2. Jennifer 7.1.2005

    The picture’s broken. :(

    Your cool will return, never fear. :)

  3. sugarmama 7.1.2005

    Damn! I can’t see the photo either. Email it to me, or fix it.

    “Salesly McWhoreperson”…. hahaha that cracked me up.

    I don’t think what car you drive is necessarily going to cramp your style. Most people, especially those in the real world who have bills to pay and mouths to feed, don’t have the luxury of driving whatever car suits their fancy. I have a friend who wears funky glasses and is weird as all get-out, who drives a Honda Odyssey minivan to cart her two kids around.

  4. Jettomatika 7.1.2005

    VOILA! Picturey goodness!

  5. eegcm steeks remled 7.2.2005

    sweet ride, now you just have to chop it and put some hydraulics on it.

  6. Jettomatika 7.2.2005

    And spinners. I totally need a set of spinners protected by some smokin’-assed curb feelers.

  7. skillzy 7.2.2005

    Curb feelers? Maybe back in the ’80s, old lady!


  8. del 7.2.2005

    Skilzy ol boy, you beat me to it with the feelers comment, I was thinking early ’90s.

    Spinners…oh yea you know it, and let’s not forget undercairage neon and halo headlights!

  9. Jettomatika 7.3.2005

    And the blacklight in the dash.

  10. Dean 7.6.2005

    Let’s not forget a set of these http://www.bumpernuts.com/

  11. MerryMadMonk 7.11.2005

    That brought back fond memories of how excited we’d get when the parental units would drive up in a new car. Usually they weren’t really new, but to kids that didn’t matter. Man, I wish they’d kept that ‘63 Chevy Impala.


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