In bed the other night, Jo rolled over and said the unthinkable. Something so, so unexpected, it really threw me for a loop and made me ask myself “do I really know this man, at all”? I could tell he was uncomfortable with the suggestion, and had to have balled up the nerve to even bring it up.
He suggested that we get rid of Vannie.
Who is Vannie you ask? Oh, only the most kick-ass minivan there ever was to burn rubber on ANY given road. Only the most awesome chariot to deliver me from A to B on a moments notice. Only the most unforgiving, sweetest ride I have ever had.
Sure, Vannie liberally farts pink glitter when you sit down on any of her seats (not her fault, all Edie’s). And sure her “magic door”, the one that glides open with a push of a button stopped working a year ago (again, not her fault, I can’t even mention the atrocities we found jamming that poor doors’ mechanical system – let’s just say for my next reno project I may knock down walls with McDonalds’ petrified french fries). And yes, I have no idea at any given time how much gas I have in my tank because the gauge stopped working a few months ago (ummm, this one is her fault – I can’t blame it on the kids) – but this keeps me on my toes and makes for a fun guessing game at the gas pump when I decide to fill her up.
She is also getting a little rusty on the sides, but I’m probably a little grey on the sides (we will never know, though will we, WILL WE).
I still love her. I love that when the kids are driving me bananas I can delegate them to the Back-Back (that’s what we call the last row of seats – the kids know I’m pissed when I tell them to go to the Back-Back). I love the memories of the road trips we have taken in her, like jamming 5 grown ladies with one gay chauffeur in her for a trip to Montreal – Vannie is so bad ass she even got a speeding ticket that weekend. The family trips we have taken in her are too many to mention, but let me say, that when it comes to border crossing, she is so messed up by the time we get to the border the agents generally just look at us in disgust and wave us on through.
Vannie is also paid for. I sense, though she looks a little worse for wear, that she possesses a certain sense of dignity in the knowledge of this, and I can picture her saying to me “No madame, you do not have to pay to ride me”. I told Jo no, not yet. And in my town, where every second car is an Audi or Mercedes, I hold my head high, blast my tunes through Vannie’s somewhat compromised speakers and hope that I have enough gas in the tank to get to my next destination.
sweet sweet Vannie