Van-ity
2004-02-04, 4:47 p.m.

Doctors have come from distant cities and all confirm: I've been diagnosed with a lethal case of Total Lack of Motivation. For what? Ummm, just about everything. Writing, being one of them. As if that's a real surprise here. But yeah, there you have it. I can't be bothered to detail the whys and hows of it (see: Total Lack of Motivation) because frankly, not only is it as uplifting as prostate cancer, it's also so tediously pedestrian that my fingers cramp up at the mere thought of articulating my malaise. And it seems I'm fresh out of witticisms. Yaaaaaaaaaaawn. Was I saying something?

Anyhow, I did feel it necessary to enlighten you all as to the recent clever machinations of the devilkin, Marlene--Matt's mother. Understand, Marlena hearts The Pain. She enjoys feeling it, but more so, she lurves inflicting it, upon unsuspecting victims, commonly, me. So, here's how she's outwitted me this time.

Matt and I are presently sharing a vehicle, which was fine when we lived next door to Matt's job, but now that we're a few miles away, I've become Winston, Matthew's chauffeur, ferrying him to and fro at his whim. Well, somebody's got to work, I guess. And I could decline my current occupation as Driver were I to accept being trapped at my house all the livelong day. But for serious, I don't have a problem at all with the commuting, I actually kind of enjoy spending the time together, now that we aren't having our daily nooners. What's more is that it wasn't going to last forever, just until May or so, when the Pass-Out is finally paid up and we have a little extra change to get a new vehicle. What with the furnishing of the McMansion (heavy on the Mc, less so on the mansion) we don't have a ton of dough to pimp out a funky-ass Escalade right now, see? So, that was the plan.

Problem: the Passat is a standard and I only learned to drive a standard when, after much arguing, we got this car. But I use the term "learned" loosely, as evidenced by the fact that after only 31,000 miles, we presently need an entirely new $5000 transmission. Who knew I couldn't ride the clutch for 29,999 miles? So basical, I've been fired. Ah well, these things happen.

"Solution": Here's where the Master of Disaster comes in. Marlene has been kind enough to give us her old vehicle! For grasping the wicked irony of this story, it may be important to know that Matt's parents have never ever ever given him anything in his entire life. I mean, because of me, they refused to pay a dime towards college his senior year and told him to transfer from Hamilton to a community college, THAT is the kind of malicious people they are. I could chronicle their stingy nastiness for days, but the point is, for them to give us anything, let alone a working transport, is significant, to say the least. And, it's an automatic, it's been meticulously maintained, it only has about 50,000 miles on it. Sounds great! And yet, it's the Best Worst Thing that has ever happened to me, because people: it's. a. fucking. Minivan. Not just any Minivan, it's a Safari, quite possibly the most hideous vehicle ever created. In Royal Blue. With hot pink racing stripes. And a luggage rack. I am crapping you negative. Look, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but a Minivan?

Matt: So what do you think?

Me: *swallowing bile*

Matt: What's the problem?

Me: It's a Minivan.

Matt: So what? It's free. It solves our problem, yes?

Me: It's a Minivan.

Matt: You've said that. I don't understand.

Me: It's a Minivan.

Matt: So, what?! I never thought you so vain to care about what kind of car you drive around in.

Me: I don't care about what kind of car I drive around in. This is a Minivan.

Matt: So the fuck what? You can't go to the grocery store in this? Gimme a break. You don't even know anybody in this town--what's your problem?

Me: It's a Minivan.

Matt: Who is going to see you?

Me: Strangers.

Matt: You're being an idiot. I'm kinda appalled at how snooty and self-conscious you are about this; I thought better of you.

Me: Yeah. But it's a Minivan.

A Minivan, to me, is all that's wrong with America. A Minivan is the boil on the ass of automobiles. A Minivan, when I don't have any children to pretend to be Soccer Mom to? Understand, too, that Matt and I made solemn blood oaths that we would never, upon pain of death, buy a Minivan. Never. And yet, now, what are we to do? Say, "No thanks!" to the one first generous thing his parents have ever done? Oh, she's witchy, that woman. And, when after ingesting three valium to be able to actually form the words, "Thanks for the Minivan, Marlene!", she replies, "Oh, it's my pleasure" (I bet it is, Diablo), "Now maybe you'll have some kids!"

Perrrrrfect. Lord, how have I offended thee?

Good times coming up for me in my suh-weet Safari, yes? Come on down, cuz that bitch is gonna rolllllllll.