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I’m surely not the only person who has been asked the question: ‘what has been your most embarassing moment?’ I never have an answer to this question. Not because I’ve not embarassed myself. But because I embarass myself all the time. And, thankfully, forget about it soon afterwards.
Even as I sit here trying to conjure up a memory of an embarassing moment, I am drawing a blank. I will say my habit of mumbling/speaking quietly has saved me from many awkward moments – like calling people by the wrong name, or saying stupid things in response to others’ questions. I’ve found it’s best to have people say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said’ than to know what you said, sometimes. I do recall being at a publicity event for Sir Elton John where I was standing around eating hors d’oeuvres. As often happens to me, something edible flew off my tiny plate and landed smack on the floor. At which point one of the uber wealthy would-be donors stepped in it with his shoes that probably cost more than my car. And gave such a look of disgust that I briefly contemplated running out of the room.
But I hadn’t yet finished all the snacks on my plate.
Fast forward to this weekend. In order to help out a friend and my own pocketbook simultaneously, I signed up for a few hours of working as catering staff. Also, I thought it might be nice to utter the phrase ‘I’m going to work’ for the first time in 11 months.
Bear in mind I’m 32 weeks pregnant; perhaps not the most conventional look for a member of a catering team. But my friend was desperate and I was willing, so I donned black pants and a black shirt, put on my apron and tried to look five months pregnant instead of eight.
Now I’m not particularly – at all – experienced in the art of serving at catered events, but I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve seen people carry trays of drinks and food; offering them to guests. Fairly straightforward. Though I’ll say from my now limited experience the ACT of carrying around a small black tray laden with drinks or food is rather nerve-wracking. Especially given my history of clumsiness with food at fancy events.
As people began to arrive, I grabbed my first tray of champagne, took a breath and headed out the door, clutching the rubber tray firmly with both hands. Having successfully unloaded four flutes of bubbly, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed back inside to get more.
Grabbed tray. Breathed. Walked outside.
I didn’t want to walk through the crowd – it seemed like there would be a higher likelihood of someone bumping into me and causing disaster – so I decided to take the long way. Which involved walking around the curvature of the patio to where people were gathered. Safely out of harm’s way, I thought. Perhaps I’d gotten distracted by the gorgeous view of the Rocky Mountains, because the next thing I knew, I realized the patio was not, as I had assumed, flat. There was a STEP down and I was about to miss it, judging from the way my right foot was stepping onto air instead of solid surface.
I concentrated on landing in an upright position, because either way drinks were going to be spilled and flutes would be broken. My only hope was to save myself. As I nailed my landing like Mary Lou Retton, the tray teetered and champagne glasses tipped. Two fell off the tray, crashing onto the stone patio, as champagne spilled all over me. Fortunately the host was kind enough, and my friend assured me it happened to everyone at least once. I felt like I had a scarlet K (klutz) on my uniform as I ran inside to get a towel and a dustpan, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
I’m hoping my amnesia kicks in soon.
It hasn’t yet.
I’ve been a mom for more than 5 years now. And it’s happened to me three times. It’s just something one doesn’t forget.
The first time, was the morning of June 29, 2004. We were flying back to the States from London that afternoon. I was taking a bath with my not-quite-four-month-old baby boy in the morning, before the taxi came to pick us up. When it happened. Horrified, I bolted faster from the tub than anyone has ever done in the history of bathing. A Guinness Book of World Records was surely set on that fateful morning. It took every bit of mental power I had to remember I needed to hold on to the baby in the process. I couldn’t discard the offender.
The next time was November 2007. Can’t remember the date. Luckily I was not in the tub when it happened. But I saw it. And it took all kinds of persuasion and cleaning for me to get back in the tub after that.
Then today. I gave the boys a long overdue haircut. Which necessitated a late afternoon bath. I was out of the bathroom for a few minutes when I heard my oldest say in an annoyed, though not overly panicky voice: ‘Mom, Henners pooped in the tub.’ Surely I heard wrong. Surely he was mistaken.
I ran into the bathroom, fully expecting there to be a misunderstanding of some sort. But there wasn’t. Mr. G had gotten it right, and was already vacating the tub. The Hen was standing up too, acutely aware that he was no longer in desirable waters.
It was one of those moments when I couldn’t have been more unprepared. I had used their bath towels to dust off their limbs post hair cut. Which means the blue towels were covered in fine pieces of hair, and could not be used to dry off the evacuees. The nearest clean towels were upstairs in a closet. No matter, by the time I’d reached this conclusion, the boys were long gone. Having foregone the ‘drying’ part of the bathing process.
Staring at the tub, filled with toys, washcloths and ‘other matter’, I had no idea what to do first, or how to go about the clean-up operation. What I really wanted to do was close the bathroom door and leave it for Jason to deal with. But truthfully, I couldn’t have handled hanging around for another 30 minutes, knowing what was on the other side of that door.
Calgon take me away.
Or not. Because I’m not getting in that tub any time soon.
It was an important event in the Johnson household tonight. Our oldest, the illustrious Mr. G, graduated. From preschool.
Unfamiliar with preschool graduations, I was a little out of my element; unsure how to approach the event.
Should he dress up? Should we dress up? Should I cut his shaggy-too-long-hair? Should I buy him a present? Do I make a big deal out of it, or pass it off as a low-key event lest he get stressed out by all the hoopla?
I went with a middle of the road approach. He took a bath – but only because he was filthy from playing outside. He wore a button up shirt…with jeans and tennis shoes. We wore nice-ish clothes. And Jason actually shaved, though he first came downstairs with a soul patch and thin mustache, claiming he’d run out of razor blades. We laughed heartily, with the tacit understanding he wouldn’t be leaving the house in that state. I didn’t cut G’s hair, because he kept coming up with excuses like: ‘maybe when I’m seven you can cut my hair’, or, ‘after my snack I’ll think about (whether you can cut my hair).’
I just didn’t have the energy to insist on a hair cut today. But apparently I’d mentioned his need for a hair cut for ‘gradulation’ a few too many times. As we were preparing to leave he announced: ‘maybe I’ll tell Miss Darlene (teacher) I’m sorry that I didn’t get a hair cut for gradulation.’ Surely he won’t be apologizing to anyone for the state of his hair when he graduates from high school.
If I really think about it, I can get a little sad that our big boy is growing up and moving on. Going to ‘big’ school is a big deal. But when a fellow preschool mom told me there’d be another graduation after Kindergarten, and in 6th grade, and in high school……I got a little less sad. I’m all for celebrating milestones…but let’s not create milestones out of thin air. Even if, as Jason liked to point out several times, only 60% or so of those assembled will actually graduate from high school. So it’s best to celebrate in the early stages. And often.
The thing about group milestone celebrations is they’re fairly miserable experiences. Just survey the crowd for proof. People are wearing clothes they don’t necessarily want to wear. A good portion of the husbands/fathers are late while impatient women save their seats. And the men – they’re scoffing inwardly at the lameness of the occasion; cracking jokes about the wedding singer-like entertainment, or busting out the lyrics to ‘Billy Jean’ by Michael Jackson. (Or was that just Jason.) People get irritated with one another for a variety of reasons…the battery in the camera is dead, the video camera tape/disk is completely full, overzealous moms are taking too many pictures before the event’s even started, the room is hot and crowded and smelly. And parents with little ones gesture irritatedly to the other about doing ’something’ to control their squirmy, unhappy baby/toddler.
By my count there were 36 almost-Kindergarteners in the room tonight. With their various entourages. The three classes entered separately; their members clad in a red cape and white cardboard hat with a taped-on red tassel. Each little person turning 360 degrees during the procession to try and find their parent – who is waving enthusiastically, mouthing encouragement and trying to make sure the camera is actually on.
The kids walked to the stage area, where they sang a song. ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ for the first class and ‘I’m a little teapot’ for the second. After singing the song, they played an instrumental (handbell) version. Some shook their bells with vigor and enthusiasm. Some (my child!) completely forgot to play when it was their turn – which means there were some gaps in the ‘teapot’ song.
After the entertainment, each child was called to the stage individually. As they walked towards their teacher she made a couple of comments about the particular kid, before giving them their ‘diploma’. When it was our boy’s turn, she commented on how much she loved his smile; his infectious enthusiasm. And what a terrible sharer he was at the sand table. ‘Tis true. About one of his classmates, she said: ‘her favorite song is the Clean Up song…she doesn’t like to clean up, she just likes the song.’
With diploma in hand, G walked off the stage and back to his seat. Seconds later he bolted towards my seat in the audience. He handed me his ‘diploma’ and asked if he could take off his red cape ‘because it’s making me hot.’ Not sensing huge value in ordering him to return to the ceremony, we walked outside where he obligingly sat on a rock so I could take a couple of pictures. Then he removed his finery. When we walked back inside, graduation was over, and it was time for cake.
The poor wedding-singer guy, who’d been patiently waiting for more than an hour to play, started strumming his guitar. Singing ‘if you’re happy and you know it.’ I drank some Jello-like punch while a couple of moms joked about spiking their punch. I got a couple of pieces of cake for the boys and headed outside.
Until…next year?
Less than two months to go until the estimated arrival date for baby boy 3. Given my record of holding babies hostage in my uterus, I’m fully expecting it to be a week or two beyond that. But, even with the ‘extra time’ I’m finding it a little stressful that we haven’t fully resolved the name issue. And by ‘fully’ I mean our positions haven’t changed since I last posted on the matter. So, seeing as we haven’t arrived at any other acceptable alternatives, I’ve decided to name this one ‘goodness’ or, at least, ‘tranquility’ in hopes that it would be a self fulfilling prophesy. I don’t think this family can handle a 5th strong personality.
According to babycenter, Mr. Tranquil Goodness weighs over 3 lbs and is 16 inches long. Which already feels pretty big, frankly. And he’s only going to get (a lot) bigger. This time around, when I hit the 30 week mark, I wept silently that the end wasn’t really in sight. Two months to go – that’s a long time. That much I’ve learned from pregnancies 1 and 2.
I vividly recall being at a doctor’s appointment when I was pregnant with my oldest. ‘I only have 9 weeks to go,’ I breezily informed the grumpy physician. ‘That’s still a long time,’ he replied. And he was right. Especially when it turned out to be nearly 11 more weeks before the esteemed Mr. G graced us with his presence.
In an attempt to make up for some pregnant partner deficiencies, Jason has tried to be proactive on the name matter this week.
I mean, I wasn’t necessarily offended when he inferred I was 36 weeks along. Instead of 31. I know he knows when the baby’s due. It’s just that I figured by the 3rd time around he’d actually know the number of weeks in a typical pregnancy. And he still doesn’t.
And then he got an email from a soon to be first-time dad. Who spent a couple of sentences talking about all the nice things he was doing for his wife. I can’t recall exactly, but I’m pretty sure there were massages and ice/heat packs and foot rubs and a few other things. I guess the fact that none of those things is happening chez Johnson makes me low maintenance. Or.
So in an effort to rise to the occasion Jason’s taken it upon himself to resolve the name issue. ‘Let’s get this name thing figured out,’ he announced on Sunday night. He asked if my feelings towards our ‘back-up’ name had changed. They hadn’t. Not discernibly. ‘What about Randy, or Lance’ he suggested. This would be why our name discussions go nowhere. No offense to Randy Quaid or Lance Armstrong, but those just aren’t names that speak to me. And that’s putting it very nicely.
We turned to the name bible, and decided to utilize its randomized name generator tool. Perhaps not surprisingly, we didn’t fall in love with the likes of Dubrovnik or Havel. Then we searched names by ‘meaning’ using words like ‘goodness, wise, and kind.’ Our pitiful attempt to ensure baby three will be a mellow one. But alas there were no good names on those lists, either.
Periodically I’ll ask my oldest what he would like to name the baby. For a long time he’s been stuck on ‘Mats’, but the other night he came up with a new name: Bennett. When I reminded him that Bennett just so ‘happens’ to be the name of his cousin, he seemed nonplussed. ‘If we say Bennett, how will the babies know which one we’re calling,’ I inquired. ‘Well, we’ll know which one is ours,’ he explained. Duh. ‘Yeah, but they won’t know who we’re talking to,’ I tried to explain. Duh. When that explanation didn’t make the desired impression, I resorted to: ‘Your Auntie will be really mad if we name our baby Bennett too.’ Not to mention it would be kind of pathetic. He didn’t seem to care.
In lieu of other ‘right-sounding’ options, Jason came up with two strategies: name baby three ‘Jason’ and find a new name for himself. (Maybe Angus?) Or, take the Hen’s middle name – which we’ve always been fond of – and bestow it upon baby 3. And then give the Hen a new middle name. Alternatively, he suggested changing a letter in the Hen’s current middle name and giving THAT to boy 3. One boy named Jasper and the other Jesper?
Hand me down clothes is one thing, but hand me down names?
Most people who’ve recently spent the better part of 70 hours in the confines of their vehicle, would make a point of it to stay out of their vehicle for a significant amount of time. They wouldn’t, say, pull into Calgary at 11pm on Monday, only to start talking about a Saturday roadtrip three days later. Because it would seem the wise thing to do – to give each family member a bit of time and space to heal from the resulting post traumatic stress disorder. I mean, the Hen is still hoarse from all his screaming on those last couple of days. Not that it has deterred him from continuing to exercise his lungs this week.
But I’m not married to ‘most people’. So I wasn’t exactly surprised when my better half started talking about ‘taking a drive’ on Saturday. Maybe to go see some wildflowers. The thing is, a good portion of our possessions are still nestled in boxes and may not see the light of day this calendar year. Things like our maps and travel guides. So, on Saturday morning, when Jason asked ‘where are our maps’ I knew we were headed for trouble. Of course, said items didn’t appear, not even after halfheartedly digging through a couple of opened boxes.
He looked online for information about a wildflower festival that he’d heard about on the radio. It was a 3 and a half hour drive from Calgary, to this Waterton Wildflower Festival. I couldn’t fathom anyone but Mr. Johnson had the mental fortitude to sit in the car that long, so soon after coming back from Indiana. Much as I personally would have liked to see those little wildflowers.
So we got in the car-van and started driving, to nowhere in particular. ‘I heard ‘22′ is pretty,’ Jason suggested. So we drove along 22, watching hundreds of bikers bike their little hearts and legs out, feeling fat and guilty every inch of the way. ‘Where exactly are we going,’ I asked our sweet driver. ‘I don’t know, I thought we’d just kind of drive and see what we could find,’ he replied. Not good.
Minutes later, our oldest son spoke up. ‘Where are we going…because I’m afraid this is going to be another long trip like when we went to Muncie yesterday.’ Bless his heart, and his incorrect usage of the word yesterday.
‘I don’t want anything for Father’s Day,’ Jason announced, ‘I just want a weekend to myself so I can drive without all you complainers,’ as he steered the car onto ‘549′ into the Kananaskis area. Where we drove, and drove, and drove and saw nothing of interest. Unless you consider middle-aged men riding around on ‘off-highway-vehicles’ an interesting sight, and fields of dandelions on the side of the road. ‘Are those the wildflowers you were talking about,’ I asked in a bemused voice.
Eventually we found a ‘trading post’ near McLean pond with bathroom facilities. So we stopped and pottied and snacked. The little man was fast asleep by that point, and our oldest got out of the van-car with his hammer in his hand. He was going ‘mountain’ climbing with a hammer – he’d brought it along expressly for that purpose. In his case it involved climbing onto one of the tiny rocks in the parking lot and hitting said rock a few times with his hammer. While eating a salami and cheese sandwich.
I consider it prophetic that his name literally means ‘mountain man’. Clearly we got it right.
After a nice stopover at Elbow Falls, and another potty break at the world’s slowest coffee shop in Bragg Creek, we headed home.
Until next time.
Happy Father’s Day J, if your penchant for aimless roadtrips is the worst thing your boys have to complain about, I’d say you’re doing alright.
I got a surprising amount of ‘flack’ about my bold and efficient packing strategies for the now infamous Screamfest 2009. Having lived through the ordeal, I have a slightly altered perspective on the whole thing.
First. Never pack bananas as snacks for a roadtrip. Unless you have a special banana container that will ensure they don’t get squashed by bags of candy and tupperware containers filled with cut up fruit. The bananas ended up smushed and no one was interested in eating them. So I, hoping to avoid food waste, deposited them in my mom’s fridge in Indiana, sure I would make banana bread or muffins or something. Well, I didn’t. And, two weeks later. She threw some seriously black bananas in the trash. It’s a bummer I didn’t know about this recipe at the time. (I omit the nuts and add a bit of vanilla…tasty!)
Of course, if I hadn’t packed bananas, I wouldn’t have had one of my personal favorite moments of the trip.
Jason walked into my mom’s house the morning after we landed in Indiana, having just gone to Clancy’s to vacuum and wash the car. Less than 8 hours after we pulled into my mom’s driveway. Not as easygoing as people think he is, that Mr. Johnson. ‘Please don’t let the kids eat bananas in the car again,’ he advised me.
‘Uh, we didn’t eat bananas in the car on the trip,’ I advised him.
Either he touched extremely old banana, or something else entirely. Either way, gross.
In all fairness, I can’t really speak to whether having four outfits at each person’s disposal was a good idea. On the day we arrived, my sister deposited a big bag of maternity clothes in our room. So, I actually had far too many clothes to wear on the trip.
Jason, on the other hand, seemed to constantly complain that he was out of clothes. Despite the fact that I was doing laundry all the time. (Not a big deal as far as I’m concerned since all our stuff only amounted to one load.)
Personally, I think he just couldn’t find where he’d put his stuff, and he wanted to take every possible opportunity to tell me how wrong I’d been to limit his wardrobe. Perhaps a little bit of organization, not more outfits, would stand him in good stead. Of course I didn’t dare mention this on our final day of driving when….someone woke up and couldn’t find a pair of clean underwear anywhere. I won’t reveal who, or what the person did to remedy the situation.
I will say that calling him Commando Johnson would not be unfounded.
I will also say that limiting our chitlins to one pair of pajamas each was dumb. A second pair would not have taken up that much extra room, and would have kept me from having to improvise on many an occasion. Frankly, those kids really seem to spill a lot of stuff on their pj’s. Personally, I think better fine motor skills would stand them in good stead – after all, how hard can it be to lift a spoon to one’s mouth without dribbling the contents onto one’s sleepwear?
Finally, though I can’t say for sure, I can only imagine that a handful of antidepressants, a pack of earplugs, and lots more chocolate would have served me well throughout it all.
Of course, additional chocolate would have made my ‘weighing’ appointment the morning after we arrived in Calgary, even more distressing than it was.
I’m sure it’s ‘all’ baby.
While in Indiana, I had lunch with a friend who shared her recent realization that 5 days is the perfect (read, maximum) amount of days one should travel with kids. She may be on to something because ‘the one thing I know for sure’ (to borrow from Oprah) is that traveling with kids for 2 weeks and 3 days is far too long for anyone to be left with a shred of sanity.
The roadtrip to Indiana had gone remarkably well. Perhaps because we were fresh. Eagerly anticipating reunions with family and friends. Curious to see the vast expanse of land that is Saskatchewan and North Dakota.
The return trip (or Screamfest ‘09 as Mr. Johnson has dubbed it) went less well. There’s nothing like driving along I-94 in North Dakota – which is nearly as flat as Saskatchewan but greener – while listening to your 21 month old wail his head off, accompanied by the muted sounds of the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song to make you think: I am living the life.
The thing about kids that ‘people’ fail to mention is they are the providers of both profound joy…and profound the-opposite-of-joy. I mean, what can be better than looking back into your beige minivan and watching your oldest giggling like nobody’s business about some ‘crazy’ Veggietales shenanigans; or lovingly doling out cheetos and cheerios to his baby brother? Or watching your littlest man hit himself with a pen repeatedly while saying ‘ow’.
It’s a thing of beauty.
And what can be worse than having a very brief stopover in the lovely Minneapolis, Minnesota (land of 10,000 tears NOT lakes); bursting with excitement about all the fun the kids will have, only to have every single member of the sick and sleep-deprived family wake up in a rotten mood and ultimately collapse in their own lake of tears?
You say ‘lovely breakfast at a local coffee shop’ and I’ll counter with ‘oldest kid moaning about not feeling well and lying on a chair, littlest kid welping about orange juice and a straw, refusing to eat his $2 muffin, and husband huffing in a chair about not being able to find a good deal on a hotel in North Dakota.’ Note to North Dakota….why so averse to the priceline concept? I shouldn’t have to pay more to stay in a small town Comfort Inn than a big city upscale hotel. It’s just wrong.
You say ‘enjoyable stroll at the Farmer’s Market’ and I say ‘oldest son crying uncontrollably about something (can’t remember what), no cash or ATM in sight, and mother ticked off at her offspring who are turning what should have been a beautiful day into a miserable one.’
You say ‘family stroll through the sculpture garden’ and I say ‘youngest son loses it completely after being escorted away from the Cherry and the Spoon sculpture..throwing a tantrum of such massive proportions that people everywhere (unabashedly) turn to stare at us. A tantrum so vile it escalated even in the privacy of our van while father and oldest son were dilly dallying at the swing sculpture.’
You say ‘yummy cinnamon rolls at Isles Bun and Coffee’ and I say ‘cash situation still unresolved; mother implodes and tries to run away from her family… unsuccessfully.’
You say ‘lovely stroll through Whole Foods to pick up supplies for the roadtrip’ I say ‘oldest son sitting in the cart playing on the green recorder his uncle and aunt very kindly bought for their youngest nephew. Nothing makes people look at you like the sight and sound of a 5 year old sitting in a grocery cart playing on a recorder.’
It was the kind of day that made me wish I was one of the cute single people lying on towels at Lake Calhoun Beach, reading trashy novels while wearing tiny swimsuits; baking themselves into a red-brown shade of purple. Instead of standing ankle deep in nasty water looking like a whale in a white shirt, with a couple of pasty white blondies suffering from various degrees of unhappiness.
It was the kind of day that made me wish my husband and children would drive off to Canada and leave me behind, taking my wallet and all forms of identification with them, so I could start a new, secret double life and end up on Unsolved Mysteries.
But that wasn’t the case. Instead we climbed back into the van and drove to Bismarck and, the following day, to Calgary; arriving at our adopted home around 11pm. Shellshocked (parents) and hoarse (children – from screaming).
Will we do it again? Probably. But not for another year. Or so.
If there’s an easy way to do something and a really complicated, incredibly stressful way of doing something, we’ll go with the latter ten times out of ten. Really, that’s not true – but it certainly feels that way. For some reason we just keep finding ourselves entrenched in bizarro circumstances, that make my stomach turn and other people shake their heads at our craziness.
Like the whole ‘acquiring-a-new-vehicle’ business.
Most sane people would not sign up for selling their current car and acquiring a new one in a ten day period of time, while on a trip to visit family. But we didn’t have much in the way of options, so that is the strategy we went with. I didn’t worry about it too terribly much, because strangely enough things tend to work out – even when it seems like they won’t.
But, when it was Tuesday night and we still didn’t have a car, and we were supposed to leave first thing Saturday morning? I started stressing a little. More so when it was Wednesday night, and Jason went out to a dealership with his dad and two brothers, only to come back with two options that were out of our price range. On Thursday I met a friend for lunch and she kindly took me to see her car man. Sadly he only had one minivan, which was also…out of our price range.
I headed back to Muncie, discouraged, but knowing I had to take both boys to a doctor’s appointment by 3pm. When I left the house at 2.50, Jason and our oldest son were nowhere to be found. Apparently he’d left me a note on the front door saying he was in Indy looking at a car. A note I didn’t see because I’d gone in through the garage. I went to the doctor’s fuming that he would either forget or be late.
Around 3.20, after the doctor had already seen our littlest one (diagnosis: ear infection), the elder Johnson men strolled in. Apparently they’d gone to look at a Volvo station wagon in Indianapolis. ‘The motor sounded funny, I think’ my oldest son declared. Luckily the doctor came back and checked out Johnson boy 1.
At 5.30 we went to look at yet another Volvo station wagon (a 1998 V70). Through chance, a friend had sent us the Craigslist listing. And, as it turned out, my mom knew the guy and his fiancee. How small IS Muncie? I was willing to go with the wagon, but Jason was not, let the record show. He was dismayed by a few cosmetic things and just couldn’t do it.
At 8.30 – less than 36 hours before we were to head back to Canada – we went and looked at a minivan. The listing was found in the newspaper by my mom. Jason had already taken a look, and driven it earlier that day. We took it for another spin. It was clean inside. The motor didn’t sound funny. The price was right.
We agreed to buy it. Which meant Jason and my mom had to go back on Friday morning at 9.30 with a check, then over to the license branch (twice – as it turns out, because I had to be there too since my name was on the title), then over to Marion (40 minutes away) for the loan paperwork. By 4pm (15 hours before our scheduled departure time) we had a van, with a license plate, and the necessary paperwork should the customs officials get snippy.
A 2002 Chevy Venture in the ubiquitous ‘beige’ color that all Chevy Ventures seem to be. It has cloth seats instead of leather. There is no sunroof. It is, shall we say, basic. We made a pact that we would say nothing negative about it from this point on, so I won’t.
I will say it held all our existing luggage, plus enough baby clothes to clothe triplets for a year, a baby swing, a boy’s bike, a small coat rack, and many other things. We used up 80 gallons of gas on the return trip and got 24 mpg. That’s better than a SUV.
Even if the stylish Canadian couple in their black Acura MDX gave Jason a pitying glance when he retrieved items from his overstuffed Clark Griswold mobile. As if to say ‘we will never go there.’
Oh, but you might.
By now it’s no secret that we have recently wasted vast amounts of time shopping for the vehicular equivalent of toilet paper. A necessity perhaps but hardly something to fret over for hours on end…. and yet I do. Of course send me to the store to buy toilet paper and I will fret over the 10 cent difference between one brand or another, I will wonder if the softness and luxury of the brand with butterflies on it trumps the low cost of the strangely coloured economy rolls. If, in a pinch, it can be counted upon to treat my blown nose kindly and wipe up spills. Is it versatile yet able to adeptly accomplish its intended purpose. I almost always regret my decision even as I hear it thud into the bottom of my cart. And so I find myself now trying to decipher the difference between the LXI and the EX and LS on vehicles I couldn’t care less about. I mean how many cup holders does one ugly mass of people moving metal need? Does each person need to spill 2 drinks while watching a DVD and listening to separate radio stations? Do the seats need to disappear, should they be suitable for captains or configured like church pews in worship of the road passing unfelt below our amply cushioned rear ends? Why is it that 2 sliding doors are a necessity over the will to drive?
I ponder all of this while passing listlessly from one sales pitch to the next. The salesmen know my heart is not in it. I am unable to summon enough of a feigned interest for them to feign enthusiasm in trying to sell me what I need but do not want. It is the same attitude they seem to bring to their jobs. They need the money but don’t want to be selling minivans to men who don’t want them, while wives and children look upon both sets of men with the urgency of moving on to the next urgency. So we are stuck, the salesmen and I in a dance of small talk about tire tread, the weather, convenience, how great the car I drove up in looks, how fast it is, how deceptive in its small package, anything but the car we are both prodding, opening doors, and trunks and hoods, looking under seats and mats, in glove boxes, hoping desperately for something to be so wrong with this one that we can rule it out (rule them all out), but also for everything to be fine so we can say this is the one, the one that will end this search and let us move on to the grocery store and school and friends’ houses, possibly with friends in tow and room to spare for all the crap gifted by well intentioned grandparents.
I think back to my own childhood in the back of a giant caprice classic station wagon, seats folded down flat and three boys rolling around on spread-out sleeping bags and playing games amongst the various suitcases and coolers with easy cheese for crackers, celery for my dad, and Oreo cookies if we were lucky. I wonder if my father who grew up in an age of muscular American cars, whose plastic models he collected from the local dealers and assembled growing up, felt a similar sense of loss when he loaded us all up in the cavernous expanse of that wagon which floated across the Midwest’s highways like a boat on an almost tranquil sea, gently rocking over the dips and around the curves of towns and country in Ohio, Indiana, Iowa, Michigan, Minnesota and Kentucky. I remember that sensation of floating even now when I think of those long car rides from one small town to the next and wonder how my children will remember the inevitable journeys of their youth as we glide, sway and labor across the continent from west to east and back. Stuck unhappily behind un-passable tractor-trailers and RV’s like a forlorn caravan transferring its contents from here to there in workmanlike fashion, anticipating home or homecoming.
It is an odyssey that must have an end. A resolution. Our little sporty Volvo will not rendezvous with Montana again. It will not, most likely venture beyond the 150 mile radius of its new owner’s driving life. We will move on, albeit not as fast or stylishly.
We will buy a van and spill drinks and food in it and clean it up with toilet paper laboriously selected for the occasion.
As we were driving through Minnesota en route to hoosierland, we sped past a UPS truck on the side of the road with a for sale sign posted in the front. ‘Let’s get that,’ Jason suggested enthusiastically. ‘You’d rather drive a UPS truck than a minivan,’ I asked incredulously. Sometimes he really is too much. ‘Yeah,’ came his (duh) reply. ‘We could put couches in the back and a tv…maybe even some sand for the boys to play in,’ he dreamed wistfully.
Picturing the four five of us driving around in a refurbished UPS truck is certainly amusing, but not anything I care to do in actual, real life. Though, had I known how cumbersome it is to find a decent, (cheap) minivan….I might have gotten on board with the UPS plan.
On Tuesday Jason spent a few hours driving around Indianapolis looking for a suitable vehicle. In my mind I thought he was going to come back with a car. Instead, he came back a disgruntled individual. Apparently his experience with (used) car salesmen had been a bit challenging. Call me ‘unrealistic’, but I was sure that in the span of two hours he should have been able to pick out a van we could take back to Calgary.
Until I went with him to the car dealerships the following morning.
I realize times are tough for all industries, but car salesmen are literally standing outside the doors of dealerships waiting to pounce on anyone who enters the parking lot. And, for some reason, they’re all wearing blue or black polo shirts. At our first stop, we were approached by a veteran salesmen who introduced himself as ‘Stan-the-Man’. Like it was the name his parents had bestowed upon him at birth. Fortunately, when he introduced himself to me, he used his first name only, dropping the descriptor. He must have sensed I’m a mean, cynical individual who would scoff at such a silly nickname. (Of course, he didn’t sense that Jason is equally mean and cynical….)
We test drove a Chevy Venture Jason had looked at the previous day, that fit within our mileage and budget parameters. Since we have never, ever, shopped for a car together it is little wonder the experience was less than enjoyable. It’s one thing buying a car you’re excited about, it’s another – buying a car because you ‘have to’. And it’s another thing entirely when you’re trying to be as cheap as possible about it. As Jason put it: ‘I don’t find it hard acting like a disinterested customer….because I am disinterested (in buying a minivan).’
So we left the car dealership in a champagne colored Venture and drove around Indianapolis for a few minutes. Complete rookies (idiots). What are you supposed to look for when you buy a used car? I turned on the heat and the air conditioning, feeling like I was pretty clever for thinking of those things. We tested the side doors and the radio – even though we drove a car for two years that had no radio whatsoever. Jason looked under the hood of the car – because it seemed like a grown up thing to do. ‘I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to be looking for,’ he announced. Well, I didn’t have any ideas either. Cleanliness?
We made fun of the ‘leather’ seats. ‘These must be from the same leather as those leather coats you can buy in Mexico for super cheap.’
Next, we tried a Chrysler Town and Country which was a bit more expensive, despite the utter absence of leather of any kind. It definitely had a bit more zip to it, but Jason worried the DVD player that had been haphazardly attached to the car ‘ceiling’ would come crashing down at any minute, bringing the car ceiling with it. (Perhaps there is a more technical term than ‘car ceiling’, but I’m not aware of it.)
After the Town and Country we tried out a Honda Odyssey that was called ‘green’ even though it was grey, at best. Given the ubiquitousness of the Odyssey, I honestly thought it would be the van we would drive back to Canada. Despite the fact that I pretty much hated the particular cloth used on the seats. But there was no denying this particular vehicle drove like a dinosaur, gas guzzling SUV – at best.
How long did it take to test drive a grand total of 3 minivans? About two and a half hours. Why? Because, (used) car salesmen move slower than sloths. And I have no idea why. Between trying to find the key for the particular minivan we wanted to drive, figuring out where the car was on the lot, making a copy of your driver’s license and bringing a dealer license plate to temporarily attach to the back, and looking up information on the antiquated sheets of paper they’re carrying with them, it took forever.
Having not had any luck in Indianapolis, we decided to head back to Muncie. But not before driving through Middletown, USA to visit a car dealer that had been recommended by one of my mom’s friends. I kept our sleeping baby company in the car, while Jason headed out into the rain to ask the salesman if he had anything in our price range. I didn’t even bother looking around to see what they had available – such was my level of enthusiasm by that point.
Jason came back to the car with a determined look on his face. ‘Let’s test drive this one,’ he said. ‘What is it,’ I asked suspiciously. ‘A Chevy Astro’ he replied. Well, I may not know much about the mechanics of cars, but I have a surprising knowledge of names of different models and what they all look like. And I knew darn well I had zero interest in driving a Chevy Astro. And Jason knew darn well I had zero interest in driving a Chevy Astro. Particularly a white Chevy Astro.
But he saw an opportunity to injure my pride and took it. Loading me and my now-awake-baby into the van. With, admittedly, cushy leather seating. But even the Hen knew better. ‘Do you like this,’ Jason asked our tiny car arbiter. ‘No’ came his emphatic reply. The kid is a total genius of course.
The thing drove like a tank. And, sitting inside it, I felt like we were in a slightly lesser version of an RV or, at least, a conversion van. I kept looking around for a stewardess to tell me where the exits were.
We drove it for about 1 minute before turning it around and returning it to its black polo shirt, gold chain bracelet wearing babysitter.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
