The Maxi Pad -or- About My Day

So I've dubbed my vehicle the Maxi. It started out innocently enough. It is a '94 Dodge Caravan and it's big and boxy. Commonly referred to as minivans, I said this is not a mini, it's a maxi. But then I started thinking (and it gets a little vulgar here), it is long, white and has a red interior. I know, I know, so middle school right? But I have a love/hate relationship with the Maxi.

It belonged to my beloved grandparents. My mother inherited it and when I moved back home jobless and floundering she signed it over to me so I could transport myself to and from the video store. It was fall, my favorite season, and everything was driving smoothly. But soon the crisp, cool days turned into never-ending bitter cold and the Maxi did not take kindly to such events. Her solution was to stop opening her doors. Well just one door really, the barn door, thus limiting my passenger capacity from seven (including two small children thanks to the built-in child seats-whoopie!) to two. Since I am somewhat paranoid, in the event of an underwater emergency, my backseat passengers would be done for.

Fine. Don't work. Fine. I will climb through the car like a spelunker in a virgin cave. Fine. I will squish large bags of giveaway and recycling through from the front just to save the planet. Yes, I am aware that my carbon footprint increases exponentially with every trip to the recycle bins just by driving it there.

But with every winter comes the hope and promise of a spring, a dawning, a rebirth, and a door that opens. Warm weather suits the Maxi quite well. She perked up, ran well, and the door even opened and closed on command. Everything was going so well until one rather hot day in April, was it? It was still spring, mind you, but we were having a bit of a hot spell. Well, this did not suit the Maxi one bit, especially when I coerced her to perform such tasks as drive on the interstate in the heat of the day. She was dones-ville and promptly died. Thankfully, on an unoccupied side street in a not-the-most-horrible part of town. $200 tow later and the shop can't find anything wrong. Fine.

Fast forward a few months to July. Summer has officially begun. People are travelling around seeing the sites and visiting friends. I too, was on my way to a potluck with some friends two hours away. I was running a little behind, accepting my arrival as being fashionably late yet proud of accomplishing the tasks I had laid out for myself earlier that day. So I set off a little later than expected. No problem, until I realized that a little later on a Friday afternoon meant one thing, rush hour.

So I'm going to be a little later than the pre-expected late arrival time. No worries. Start without me. I'll be there in time for cocktails. I got about a half a mile in half an hour. I'm in the center lane on the interstate in stop 'n go traffic when it hits. The Maxi is dones-ville. "In the heat of the day? Seriously? First you speed me up to speed limits that didn't existed when I was born, then you slam on the brakes like they haven't been slammed one too many times in their day, and now you expect me to stop and go and stop and go and--ooh no, not this Maxi."

I don't feel too bad because traffic already sucks but I kind of feel really bad because I just made a crappy situation crappier for everyone else as well. Well, it wasn't me, it was the Maxi. She finally manages to sputter to the shoulder when there happened to be a break in the traffic to my right. Miracle. I park her in the zebra-stripped webbing between the interstate and an exit, call Mr. Tow Truck Man and wait for yet another towing bill. Fashionably late potluck...unfashionably late potluck...I'm not coming...I could use that cocktail right about now though. Get the tow and this time the padres decide...she's going to the dealership.

Aaaaahhh...sings the choir of angels. The Maxi hasn't seen the dealership since my grandparents bought her off the lot for way too much money. She loves it there. So much so she decides to take a week long vacation spa retreat there leaving me in the lurch. Oh, and does she show any symptoms or die for her caretakers? Of course not.

Fast forward one month later aka present day. I had a tiring last two days with no end in sight. I go to bed at 11 pm and wake up at 2 am and 6 am and 7 am and finally roll out of bed around 8 am which is the time I was supposed to roll out of town. I have my tasks that I don't perform with the alacrity I had hoped and then my mom calls with a task. Long version: It involves driving out to her house to get her drivers license. Clever me got it yesterday when I was out there in the afternoon. Do you want your credits cards? asked yesterday me. No, said yesterday mom. Okay. I will take the drivers license and be prepared, thought yesterday me. Today I get the call from my mom. I need my drivers license and my debit card, says today mom. Great, thought today me. Now, instead of driving two blocks to the post office on my way out of town, I have to drive to your house nowhere near the post office, get your debit card which I asked if you wanted yesterday when I was already at your house and coming back into town, drive all the way back into town and mail it. Because have I mentioned what the task was? Mail her her drivers license and debit card because she left her purse...on Vacation...a Roadtrip Vacation. But these are mommy issues. I had to stop by the house anyway and I mailed it from another location. (Although it wasn't the airport post office my mom wanted me to mail it from so that it would be that much closer to its destination. If you pay for overnight, they get it there overnight. Sorry. Mommy issues again.)

So I make it to my sister, Madonna's school where I am to help her set up her classroom for the coming school year. Oh, did I mention that I pulled my back on my destination beach vacation? I did. It still hurts so pushing around heavy desks and lifting heavy chairs and boxes really wasn't my cup of tea. That, and my brain was dead from lack of sleep and energy. Needless to say, my sister and I weren't communicating very well and that's when we get testy. But after an energizing lunch, her kicking me out, and I refusing to leave, we got some good work in. Okay, one more errand, kind of out of the way but in the same general I-bothered-to-come-into-the-city kind of area, so let's get it done with, after which I'm home and in my bed. Take the recycling. Not all the recycling, just the glass because my county doesn't do glass.

Okay, I've never been there before but I know the street. At least, I think I know the street. I thought I knew the street but then the street exit off the interstate exit wasn't the street and then I had to drive even more to the next exit that was in the next town over where I had to cross under that exit to get back to the first exit that still isn't the street I wanted in the first place but thankfully I do know how to get to the street that I do want from this street. But is it right or left off of this street? Left. Nope. Right. Okay. Turn around. Found the street that I want, but is it right or left? Left. Left? Yes! I remember now. Okay, maybe half a mile. On the right? Right. There is was. It looked closed. Okay. Turn around. There it is on the left. Closed? Yep, closed. Hours? 7 am-4 pm. Time? 4:20 pm. Damn it!

Maxi? Maxi?! Are you okay? You seem a little...nooooooooooooooooo!

At 4:20 pm with a fever of 102 (or maybe that was the outside temperature but by the by it was what Maxi's thermometer was gauging at) Maxi died a third time. But third time really is a charm as she coasted to a shady stop at a trusted gas station. Thank goodness Madonna lives fairly close. She came to get me and we instead went shopping. She invited me to dinner with her and her husband and I suggested the nice Cuban place she had been raving about all day because if not we would end up at the lovely Mexican place we go to every time I visit so that they can watch me speak in Spanish with the cook they want to hook me up with, and so that my brother-in-law can eat and drink too much with no patience for the latin lax and then be obnoxious in the car ride back to their house four blocks away while my sister yells at him.

We pull up to the Cuban place. Closed. Oh I forgot, the Cuban is on vacation. Of course, the place I suggest would be closed today. Hope he doesn't pull his back on vacation. Mexican it is, where the cook asks for my number, my brother-in-law eats and drinks too much with little patience and where, as my sister is making a left-hand turn, he unexpectedly swings open his passenger side door without wearing his seat belt...twice...in order to litter. I yell at him this time.

Fine. Maxi has rested and I won't take the interstate home. You just have to get through four towns and the fifth is home. At town number four she starts sputtering a little. Fine. Fine. I won't go 40 mph. (She hates 40 mph. That's when she starts getting testy.) I could go 50 but you've had a hard day. 35 mph it is. Hazards on. Everyone else feel free to pass me going 60. I am perfectly happy just moving. We make it home. It is now midnight, I'm still exhausted, my back still hurts, I'm still awake, and I still have a busy, exhausting day tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Valentine's Day 2010

I'd like to recount the events of February 14, 2010.

I used to work at the South's Finest Chocolate Factory. And yes, it is the south's finest chocolate, made at this factory where I used to work. Valentine's Day is their biggest single day of profits all year. What do you get your sweetheart on Valentine's Day except a heart shaped box full of assorted chocolates? That, or Strawberries in the Snow also known as strawberries hand-dipped in white chocolate by yours truly. I wanted to make t-shirts that say "I'm a dipper." Like I'm a pepper, only dipper. Maybe I'll teach myself how to silk screen like Seth did. More on that later. So I haven't gone back to work at the factory but I was a guest dipper as it is that time of year when everyone gathers in Knoxville to enjoy friends, food, and frenzy. Strawberry frenzy. It was a blast hanging out with everyone and surprise! Little Jane and Andrew^ show up as they were road tripping it through the South.

So she comes and it's like the whole gang is back for V-day ventures. It was a little slow. Economic downturn, you know. That and V-day was a Sunday. Not a big going out kinda night. But Christabel and the Jons were playing and so it becomes a whole family affair. The aforementioned Seth is one of the Jons and lil bro to Lil Hil, chocolatier. And Cindy, visiting chocolatier like Little Jane and myself, is mother to the two and friend to all. So it's an event. For the occasion, I wore all black save my indige red bead necklace. And I put my eyes on. We finally make it to Barley's where the gig is held and it's a lovely blast. We were all spotted on the news^ toasting champagne at the factory.

At the bar, it was a good ole Christabel and the Jons time. Now Christabel and the Jons is a group I know and love. I listened to her back when she was just Christa Decicco with dreads selling postcards out of old luggage. I listened to her back when the Jons were actually two guys named Jon. (They have since been through various Jons. One is original, one is now Seth, and they can't seem to hang on to another which is sometimes a lady Jon.) I even have the original version of their first album where one of the tracks is titled Thakful instead of Thankful. But despite all this and being friends with friends, we just never seemed to chat it up. So it was funny to me when somehow (probably due to my unique soberness), she reintroduced herself to me and asked me to be the impromptu merchandise girl. Perhaps out of all the people hanging out close to the table, I just seemed the most responsible so people naturally came to me about making purchases. One can never tell.

So, merch girl it was. Seth had googled silk screening and made some cool merch which pissed his sis (Lil Hil remember) off royally seeing as how she spent boocoos of money taking a university class and came away with well, not much, and here he was selling it and earning back the cost of the materials. Amongst the onesies and handkerchiefs he had made were white, ladies', cotton, bikini briefs which I tried to hock to his father as "Christabel and the Jons intimate apparel for your wife on Valentine's Day" to which Seth replied, "That's my MOM!" as he ripped the undies from his parents' hands. Hey man, it's his merchandise, I was just trying to make a sell.

And now we've come to the point of the story. (Well, the real story actually. I had to preface with why I was in Knoxville on Valentine's Day and how I came to be the merch girl for Christabel and the Jons.)

While manning my post, drunk guy #1 starts ogling the cds. Being courteous and an excellent salesperson^, I tried my best to interest him...in the merchandise, of course. But then he turns into talky drunk guy #1. So I have to humor him and try to be nice with arms crossed and negative body language, of course. Unfortunately, as I had mentioned earlier, I had put on my eyes that night. So Mr. TDG#1, introduces himself and compliments my eyes, etc. He even compliments the band. Which he knows a good band when he hears one cause he used to play drums for a band called Nirvana. No, it wasn't Dave Grohl. Maybe he just mentioned playing drums for Kurt Cobain, who was in a band called Nirvana. Anyway, that bitch killed him. Drove him to it. And Mr. TDG#1 had to live through the pain while Kurt got to off himself. Oh, and did I mention TDG#1 was heartbroken over some girl who dumped him? "On Valentine's Day!?", I queried, still trying to play nice. No it was a couple months ago but he was thinking of doing this...*whish whish*...Switchblade.

Um...so I get that pocketknives are allowed in places that guns perhaps are not, but talking a guy down from the ledge in the middle of a crowded bar was not really what I expected from a fun-filled V-day weekend. He was even making horizontal sawing motions just above his wrists. I really wasn't able to properly assess the situation seeing as how I was hocking merchandise in the middle of a crowded bar. As best I could I told him that he shouldn't do that and that I hope our friendship would continue for a very long time. As in, please don't off yourself. I don't know whatever came of this guy. I don't even remember his name but I sincerely hope he's still out there somewhere.

*WhaWha* Kind of a downer I know but I did have a fabulous time. I danced with Scottie, had a sleepover with Bilary (aka Hen aka Ben and Hilary) AND Lexi and Sarah, and overall had an enjoyable weekend. But definitely this was a Valentine's Day for the history books.

^Tangent on Little Jane and Andrew
She is a chocolatier (and Yankee) from before my time who came to the University of Tennessee after falling in love with Brad Renfro (as did I) probably following the release of Tom and Huck. Anyway, with his being from the Knoxville area, and she wanting to save his soul, she decided on UT as the college of her choice and he, unfortunately, died of an overdose. I don't know that she ever ended up running in to him, but she did end up running into the Chocolate Factory which is a pretty darn good crowd to run into. I first met Jane four or five years ago at another V-day reunion. She loved coming down and working V-day for the fun of it. I had never met the girl but we ended up splitting a case of champagne with a few other girls, almost getting kicked out of a restaurant (I don't recall that part, just the popping of cork into the street while we were waiting forever for a table since we hadn't made reservations at a popular V-day steak venue. It was BYOBottle with a cork fee. We had several bottles. I don't think we were charged for the bottle we corked on the porch though.), and she ended up crashing on my floor since the beds were occupied with other girls that had more delicate constitutions, myself included. My last actual memory of her was sending her off in cab in the early morning hours since she had to make it back to Rhode Island to rejoin her boyfriend, Andrew.

^News (and TB and Champagne) Tangent
You know those feel-good, cheesy stories on the news? They eat the chocolate factory for breakfast. And V-day? Please. They came by with their cameras and interview the manager and film Lil Bill working and then catch us in a candid moment. For a split second I was seen guzzling down the bubbly which I felt just a bit later since I tested positive for Consumption and am on meds that don't allow for alcohol so one drink and I'm golden. Alas, April cannot come soon enough. At least they didn't catch on film the manager's toast. While I prefer the dishtowel over the cork method of popping, some find it fun to shoot it across the factory floor and spend the rest of the year playing "Find the V-day cork!" His toast went something like this, "I'm gonna aim the cork at ya'll and whoever it hits gets laid." It was more elegantly put but that was the gist. Well, it was a dud, popped about a foot straight up and hit him on the head. We busted out laughing as he went to go call his sweetie in private. I guess you had to be there.

^Sales Tangent
I used to get people to buy more chocolate if the total rang up $6.66. "Oh *frown*, are you sure you don't want to buy another piece *grimace*?" Worked every time.

When I won the Easter basket at McDonald's

I want to recount the story of when I won the Easter basket at McDonald’s.

Years ago, during my childhood, back when corporate America wasn’t so cut and dry and quite frankly stale, people used to do fun things to attract business or beef up morale. Either way, it was something for free with nothing expected in return really. I believe you would call that nice. Huh, yes, this is a memory of long forgotten lore.

So it was Easter season in Springfield and the local McDonald’s held a contest. They had about four to five giant Easter baskets hanging from the ceiling above the cash registers. They were those Easter baskets that are molded plastic, all one pastel color, filled with stuffing covered in pretty paper in order to actually see what’s inside. They had tall giant loops of handles in order to display more items because by Easter basket we don’t really mean that stuff goes in the actual basket part, we mean that stuff is displayed in the space between the basket and the basket’s handle. Did I mention the size of the loops? TALL. So displayed were all kinds of crap toys, more plastic crap, and like 3 small bags of actual crap candy. All covered in cellophane and tied above the handle with a giant pretty pastel colored bow. I said crap a lot in the previous sentences but to small children that translates into pure gold. I mean, they were actually displayed closer to heaven holding their rightful spot above us puny humans and just below the hands of God I mean, McDonald’s I mean, God, oh I get confused. They were revered. Let’s just leave it at that. And four to five area children were going to win these beautiful, lovely, pastel, 99% plastic Easter baskets for doing nothing really.

It wasn’t really a contest. There was no test of skill or talent. No real competition between equals. No, it was more a drawing. Like a lottery for kids that doesn’t involve the exchange of one’s hard earned wages. All you had to do was write your name and your phone number on a small slip of paper and put it in the box. Easy, breezy, beautiful, Easter basket. And here is where the contest comes back into play. That test of skill and talent, because you see for me, that is exactly what it was. I can’t quite remember what year this all took place and despite being such a vivid memory and remembering all the mundane details, I was young. Real young. Young enough to not be able to correctly and legibly write my name and phone number on a tiny slip of paper. Young enough to not be able to reach high enough to put the paper into the slit cut into the top of a very tall box. Heck, I don’t think I could reach the counter to use it as a writing surface, that is, if I was able to write which I’ve already established that I could not. I was young. Let’s just leave it at that.

Thank God for big sisters.

I love my big sister.

Each child was allowed to put their name in once but it didn’t actually matter who wrote it. After filling out a slip for her, she helped me out and filled one out with my name and our telephone number. “Thanks,” I said. And as we left, I turned and gave the Easter baskets a little wink and I swear, one of them actually winked back. (This last part isn’t true. I don’t recall saying thanks.)

What seemed like an eternity later but which was probably just a few days later, my sister and I are home playing in the front yard being watched by Mrs. Garden*. Mrs. Garden was hard to explain to the other kids at school. Living in a rural, farming community and having a “maid” isn’t cool. She was our “housekeeperslashbabysitter” who is "like a third grandmother” to us. It seemed like any other typical day except that I get a phone call. Who in the world would be calling me? Heck, me and my friends were just learning to dial 9-1-1 and more specifically to not dial 9-1-1 except for emergencies. So I get a phone call and would you believe who it was? Mack Donalds! Oh. My. Gosh.

I won! I won I won I won I won I won! Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh. Mrs. Garden you have to take us to McDonald’s now please please pleeeeease. Please don’t make us wait til Momma and Daddy get home.

So driving us around and wasting her gas was not in Mrs. Garden’s job description. But when faced with the options of taking us to McDonald’s or listening to us begging her to take us to McDonald’s she opted for shutting us up and taking us to McDonald’s. So we drive all the way into town. I got to McDonald’s and received my prized Easter basket. I don’t know how I proved I was me. I didn’t have any id as a small child but who cares! I had my Easter basket. It was just as shiny and plastic and gorgeous as it had been in my dreams. And it was all mine. That is, until my big sister opened her big mouth. In her authoritative, confident, know-it-all voice she says to me, “You know, Catherine, you can't even write. You wouldn’t have won if I hadn’t written your name down and put it in the box for you so technically, the basket is half mine.”

Ugh. Why did God invent big sisters?

I hate my big sister.

I actually didn’t feel this way. It was more like, “You’re so right, Madonna*. Please, pick out the best half of the basket’s toys and candy before I get a chance to even crawl out from under all the cellophane wrapping.” The only candy and toy I actually recall is a mini fun size^ bag of Sugar Babies and this plastic sifter plate shaped thing for like gold panning, possibly sand sifting at a beach which was great since I live in the state famous for bordering the most states (8, tied with Missouri) and which is completely landlocked and has no beaches or gold of which I know. This was not the first time I had been exploited by my sister and it certainly wasn’t the last. And we’re actually really close. I probably would have shared the basket with her out of the goodness of my big, warm heart anyways, but there were years and continues to be years of manipulation on her part. What more can I say?

Just this. This and maybe one other time which I can’t currently recall was the only time I ever won anything in a drawing. I did hit the Powerball number a couple months ago which was worth about three bucks but never turned it in and I think those things expire at some point. So it totally sucks that I used up all my good luck at such a young age and for what? For my sister to usurp half of my winnings and for a lousy plastic panner’s plate thing that broke soon thereafter. It remains today one of my fondest memories though. “The day I won something.” They don’t come often but boy, when they do, they shine...like gold from a panner's plate.

*Names have been changed to protect identities.

^ Tangent: Ever notice how "fun size" means tiny? I don't think that's fun.