Death in a Handful of Gear-Shifter
Yesterday, as I was driving in my spiffy little Suzuki at a speed that had the same number of digits as the posted speed limit, I was passed by an angry looking woman in a minivan. A minivan! In case any of you readers are not from this planet, a minivan is an amorphous automated blob that indicates high estrogen-levels in the driver (Now, before those of you with high-estrogen levels get annoyed with me, notice that I haven’t said anything negative about said levels). With a roar like a caterpillar, the minivan tore far ahead of me.
Many times I have been urged to purchase one of these delights of modern transportation myself. “They’ll have so much room for your art booth supplies!” “You’ll have plenty of seating for all the kids you plan to have!” “Lots of room for luggage!” In contempt, I shake my head. My art booth supplies, as mentioned in previous posts, are happily, if noisily, strapped on top of my car. My two adorable ankle-biters share a quality with my Pfaltzgraf salt & pepper shakers: they’re the only pair I’ll ever have. And as for luggage – you’re looking at the girl who packs a backpack for a week-long vacation.
Now, I won’t say that I haven’t thought about getting a mini-van before. As a matter of fact, my fantasy mini-van was legend amongst my family members by the time I was fifteen.
It would be dark purple, with brilliant orange and yellow flames that burn the length of the van. A large wing would rise from the back and, on its bulbous rear, there would be a single bumper sticker that read “G.R.I.T.S.: Girls Raised In The South.” Tinting blacker than an American politician’s heart would coat every window. On either side, painted in neon yellow: “The Widowmaker”. This, my friends, is the stuff of myth and legend.
But as I’ve grown, my domestic urges have grown and changed. Unbelievably, I have outgrown the specter of the Widowmaker. My tastes have matured and solidified. Grown simpler, more organic. I have fallen into lock-step with my housewife peers. Now, all I want is a 1970 Camaro Z28 with a split-bumper, in black glistening perfection with a stripe whiter than bird doo.
Next time you are in a Wal-mart parking lot trying to make your precarious way across the asphalt, look up when you hear the pounding bass and squealing tires. Is it the Widowmaker, come to mow you over in righteous supernatural glory? It could be, but not with me behind the wheel. Nay, the legend has been passed on and the dream of the pimped out minivan is no longer mine.
So watch out, and stay on the sidewalk, because whoever’s behind the wheel might not be as handy with a steering wheel as I.
Links for this post:
Side-Effects of Too Much Estrogen
Funny Bumper Stickers
My Beautiful Dream Car
Many times I have been urged to purchase one of these delights of modern transportation myself. “They’ll have so much room for your art booth supplies!” “You’ll have plenty of seating for all the kids you plan to have!” “Lots of room for luggage!” In contempt, I shake my head. My art booth supplies, as mentioned in previous posts, are happily, if noisily, strapped on top of my car. My two adorable ankle-biters share a quality with my Pfaltzgraf salt & pepper shakers: they’re the only pair I’ll ever have. And as for luggage – you’re looking at the girl who packs a backpack for a week-long vacation.
Now, I won’t say that I haven’t thought about getting a mini-van before. As a matter of fact, my fantasy mini-van was legend amongst my family members by the time I was fifteen.
It would be dark purple, with brilliant orange and yellow flames that burn the length of the van. A large wing would rise from the back and, on its bulbous rear, there would be a single bumper sticker that read “G.R.I.T.S.: Girls Raised In The South.” Tinting blacker than an American politician’s heart would coat every window. On either side, painted in neon yellow: “The Widowmaker”. This, my friends, is the stuff of myth and legend.
But as I’ve grown, my domestic urges have grown and changed. Unbelievably, I have outgrown the specter of the Widowmaker. My tastes have matured and solidified. Grown simpler, more organic. I have fallen into lock-step with my housewife peers. Now, all I want is a 1970 Camaro Z28 with a split-bumper, in black glistening perfection with a stripe whiter than bird doo.
Next time you are in a Wal-mart parking lot trying to make your precarious way across the asphalt, look up when you hear the pounding bass and squealing tires. Is it the Widowmaker, come to mow you over in righteous supernatural glory? It could be, but not with me behind the wheel. Nay, the legend has been passed on and the dream of the pimped out minivan is no longer mine.
So watch out, and stay on the sidewalk, because whoever’s behind the wheel might not be as handy with a steering wheel as I.
Links for this post:
Side-Effects of Too Much Estrogen
Funny Bumper Stickers
My Beautiful Dream Car
posted by Maggie Stiefvater at 10:01 PM
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