The Age of the Minivan

Did you know there are 16,852 white minivans in Orange County? There is the white Dodge Caravan, the white Toyota Sienna and the most popular, the white Honda Odyssey. A recent DMV survey showed that 72% are driven by females over 35 years of age with two or more children. I know these things because I am one of them.

Okay, I don’t really know. I just made these statistics up to make myself feel better about what happened to me last week in the parking lot of Costco. I had a couple of kid-free hours and instead of making the intelligent decision to head home to sit on the couch and read my latest issue of People, I chose a trip to Costco. On a typical trip, my initial excitement is quickly replaced with sudden sleepiness and overwhelming exhaustion. Instead of perusing produce, I end up staring at the large box of Almond Rocca and calculating how many Weight Watcher points it would cost me to eat the whole thing.

But this trip was not like that. I was clear headed and focused. No candy and no extraneous purchases, except for the Body Slimmer bras, which I view more as a necessity thanks to my previous Costco candy purchases. I checked out with efficiency and even managed to not lose my receipt before arriving at the exit. So, what a surprise it was when I wheeled my cart up to my white minivan and could not get it to open. I hit the clicker a couple more times and nothing happened, so I started pulling on the hatch door. That was when I noticed that someone had put a bumper sticker on my rear window that read “Top of the World.” I thought to myself, “That is so weird because we don’t live in Top of the World anymore.” I looked around to see who would do such a thing. Where was that menacing bumper sticker criminal?

That was when the movie moment occurred. In slow motion, I saw an abundance of white minivans and it clicked. I was the criminal. I was trying to break into a car that was NOT mine. I had the wrong Honda Odyssey white minivan. My movie’s soundtrack swelled with Talking Head’s “Once in a Lifetime” lyrics: “And you may ask yourself-well…how did I get here?”

How did I end up in a suburban Costco parking lot with a load full of groceries trying to break into a white minivan? Well, it was real easy, I told myself. You got engaged, got pregnant, got married, learned breast-feeding was not a form of birth control, and got pregnant again. You worked, took care of babies, became completely burnt out, decided there had to be a better way, and moved the family down south.

“Get over it,” Annie yelled at me, “You live in the ‘burbs. You drive a minivan. Get over your citified self.” She was right. I was overreacting a bit. So I own a minivan, which I have failed to mention, I love to drive. Who wouldn’t love the soft comfy seats, the portable storage facility compartments, and the two feet distance between my seat and the kids’? The ability to ignore the constant “Mommy” requests is so much easier when they can’t pull my hair.

Perhaps, what my minivan needs is a tattoo. It seems to have worked for Angelina Jolie and her crowded house. That way, I can still have one foot in the Age of Aquarius with the other foot on the accelerator. And if that doesn’t make life exciting enough, I have another opportunity awaiting me: the Costco Minivan Thief. Who would ever suspect a mom with a crow bar, a stack of Body Slimmer Bras and a large box of Almond Rocca?

Barbie’s Breaking News

Well dear readers, thank you for your concern. According to my doctor, I am neither pregnant nor heading into early menopause. I just have the hormonal mind and body of a slightly crazy thirty something. All right, forty something. (Aren’t they saying that forty is the new thirty?)

Anyway, I am no longer obsessed with having a third child. My girlfriend Samantha is so pregnant that she is about to lose her mind. Every time she looks at me, she screams, “How can you even think about a third child? You want to have ankles like these?” Now granted, her ankles do look water logged, but I keep reminding her that she is going to be holding her beautiful baby soon. To which she either grumbles or snorts, depending on how much weight she gained that week.

These days, I’m obsessed with Barbie (yes, the doll) and Ken. I don’t know if you missed this breaking news on the cover of New York Times web site, but it looks like Barbie has been going through her very own midlife crisis. A couple of years ago, she dumped Ken and took up with the Australian surfer Blaine. I guess she was feeling the need for change after giving birth to all of those Kelly dolls. Domestic life got her down, so she sought out the adventurous type and found Blaine, the man with the boogie board. Sounds a bit like life in Laguna Beach.

The break-up sent Ken into his own midlife crisis. He decided to take time off and travel the world. He learned how to cook, studied Eastern religions and most importantly, got himself a stylist. In today’s age of enlightenment, we all know the key to inner and outer happiness is, in fact, a personal stylist. Lisa hired one for me on my fortieth birthday and after she went through my closet, I basically had nothing to wear. Not one piece of clothing either fit right or was still in style. And I felt happy, because I didn’t have any laundry to do that day.

Ken got a makeover from celebrity stylist Phillip Bloch who replaced the madras pants and bright colored t-shirts with a motorcycle jacket and cargo pants. Personally, I prefer the old look but, heh, I’m no Barbie. I guess Barbie’s sales were down, so the powers-that-be at Mattel arranged a lunch meeting for the ex-lovers. And voila’ the chemistry of capitalism still existed and the two decided on a reconciliation. Barbie dumped Blaine right around Valentine’s Day, making room for Ken’s home-cooked meals and meditation sessions. It’s not clear whether they are going to couple therapy, but I am sure that Ken’s newfound wisdom will guide them through the make-up process.

If only real life were that easy. If only I could have a little fling with a surfer dude, send my hubby off to cooking school and maintain my waistline throughout it all. There would be no stressful nights of worry. No wondering if my husband would fall in love with some chef girl that he met at the chopping block; if my surfer dude would tire of the tired mom and her lack of stamina; and most importantly, if the boxes of chocolate and bottles of chardonnay would send me back to Weight Watchers for the fifteenth time.

But alas, I am no Barbie. Or at least the Barbie that I know. Although one never knows what can happen. Now that Barbie and Ken have reconciled, I am sure there will be more Kelly girls and maybe even a few Kevin boys in the works. With those kind of numbers, there will not be nearly enough Cali Girls to baby sit and who knows, Barbie may have to take over some of the childcare duties herself. Perhaps then we will get to know the real Barbie as she trades in her sports car for a minivan, wears sweatpants on a daily basis, and forms cellulite near her panty line. Now that’s breaking news: Disheveled Barbie, Impatient Barbie and Post Partum Barbie coming soon to a store near you.