![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraMonday, the Number One Son put the evil whammy on me. I don't think he meant to. But there we were in the van chugging along in the pouring rain making our way up 280, the last vestiges of daylight stretched across the horizon in a kind of garish Abandon All Hope All Ye Who Enter Here banner effect, when Max turned to me and remarked conversationally, "You do know this van is a death trap, don't you?"
"What do you mean?" I squeaked.
"Well, look at it, Mom. Every gust of wind blows it across the lane. The headlights barely work – see how dim they are? The front of it might as well be made of cardboard as far as protecting you in a front-end collision goes. And these seat belts? A joke!"
"So how come you're always trying to borrow it?"
He grinned wolfishly and hit the accelerator. "Well, it's there, isn't it?"
Never let your kids learn how to drive.
The van is the only one of the family automobile fleet that's drivable right now. Meaning the red Veedub bug is drivable but I can't get the registration renewed until I have about a thousand dollars worth of work done on it, and I can't have a thousand dollars worth of work done on it until the finances sort themselves out – the great domino effect.
And actually I don't mind driving the van. As long as I never have to back up. It's a little like driving a covered wagon. If a Comanche raiding party appears on the side of 101 with tomahawks and war paint, I figure I'll be safe.
But Max was making me reconsider.
I'd loaded up Robin into it and made the two-hour overland passage to Palo Alto earlier that evening to take the boys out to dinner at Il Fornaio. Max's birthday dinner. Il Fornaio in Palo Alto is the overpriced Tuscan chain restaurant where Tom Mandel and I used to hang out ten years ago while Tom was dying of cancer. I have fond memories, not of the food so much as the Pavlovian response of sitting at one of its tables: Tom and I would sit at one of its tables across from each other, and laugh, and drink, and pretend it was okay… and for a little while it actually became okay. I figured I could sit across the table from my kids, laugh, not drink, and it would similarly become… okay. Besides, Max had spent the day doing the Stanford walk around so it was convenient.
I forget sometimes that Max can be downright scary: the arrogance of the very young, doncha know. The very young and the strikingly perfect. My big joke while he was growing up: "I never met a perfect man, so I decided to create one in Dr. Mommy's secret Frankenstein lab!"
Of course, he was absolutely right about the van.
But I wondered about his timing. I mean, given the fact that I had to drive back down to Monterey in the van and this time not only did it rain, it actually started hailing, golf ball-sized chunks, and Robin announced loudly, "I have to throw up!" and the gas gage started skittering nervously somewhere on empty during that long, long stretch of 280 that is entirely without gas stations. How exactly did it help this process, knowing this thing I drove was a genuine, certified death trap?
I mean – maybe once I was safely home, he could have written me a little email: Dear Mom, as you know a 20-year old man's mother is the most important person in his life and I appreciate all the sacrifices you've made for me over the years and don't worry about your destitute old age because I'm going to run for President in 15 years and as soon as I win, they'll take the plaque off the Lincoln Bedroom and replace it with one that says, 'Mommy DiLucchio Sleeps Here,' and –oh! About that van? Maybe you shouldn't be driving it long distances.
I got home safely enough. (Duh! Otherwise I wouldn't be typing this.)
But I went into a deep post-traumatic stress shock that only dissipated last night with the two-hour season premiere of America's Next Top Model. Tyra's gained a lot of weight. A lot of weight. She has this… thing… in the middle of her chest that used to be a pair of breasts but has now merged into a single uni-bazoom much in the way that Frida Kahlo's eyebrows merged into a single uni-brow. The fix is in: I'm predicting a plus-sized winner this season.
"What do you mean?" I squeaked.
"Well, look at it, Mom. Every gust of wind blows it across the lane. The headlights barely work – see how dim they are? The front of it might as well be made of cardboard as far as protecting you in a front-end collision goes. And these seat belts? A joke!"
"So how come you're always trying to borrow it?"
He grinned wolfishly and hit the accelerator. "Well, it's there, isn't it?"
Never let your kids learn how to drive.
The van is the only one of the family automobile fleet that's drivable right now. Meaning the red Veedub bug is drivable but I can't get the registration renewed until I have about a thousand dollars worth of work done on it, and I can't have a thousand dollars worth of work done on it until the finances sort themselves out – the great domino effect.
And actually I don't mind driving the van. As long as I never have to back up. It's a little like driving a covered wagon. If a Comanche raiding party appears on the side of 101 with tomahawks and war paint, I figure I'll be safe.
But Max was making me reconsider.
I'd loaded up Robin into it and made the two-hour overland passage to Palo Alto earlier that evening to take the boys out to dinner at Il Fornaio. Max's birthday dinner. Il Fornaio in Palo Alto is the overpriced Tuscan chain restaurant where Tom Mandel and I used to hang out ten years ago while Tom was dying of cancer. I have fond memories, not of the food so much as the Pavlovian response of sitting at one of its tables: Tom and I would sit at one of its tables across from each other, and laugh, and drink, and pretend it was okay… and for a little while it actually became okay. I figured I could sit across the table from my kids, laugh, not drink, and it would similarly become… okay. Besides, Max had spent the day doing the Stanford walk around so it was convenient.
I forget sometimes that Max can be downright scary: the arrogance of the very young, doncha know. The very young and the strikingly perfect. My big joke while he was growing up: "I never met a perfect man, so I decided to create one in Dr. Mommy's secret Frankenstein lab!"
Of course, he was absolutely right about the van.
But I wondered about his timing. I mean, given the fact that I had to drive back down to Monterey in the van and this time not only did it rain, it actually started hailing, golf ball-sized chunks, and Robin announced loudly, "I have to throw up!" and the gas gage started skittering nervously somewhere on empty during that long, long stretch of 280 that is entirely without gas stations. How exactly did it help this process, knowing this thing I drove was a genuine, certified death trap?
I mean – maybe once I was safely home, he could have written me a little email: Dear Mom, as you know a 20-year old man's mother is the most important person in his life and I appreciate all the sacrifices you've made for me over the years and don't worry about your destitute old age because I'm going to run for President in 15 years and as soon as I win, they'll take the plaque off the Lincoln Bedroom and replace it with one that says, 'Mommy DiLucchio Sleeps Here,' and –oh! About that van? Maybe you shouldn't be driving it long distances.
I got home safely enough. (Duh! Otherwise I wouldn't be typing this.)
But I went into a deep post-traumatic stress shock that only dissipated last night with the two-hour season premiere of America's Next Top Model. Tyra's gained a lot of weight. A lot of weight. She has this… thing… in the middle of her chest that used to be a pair of breasts but has now merged into a single uni-bazoom much in the way that Frida Kahlo's eyebrows merged into a single uni-brow. The fix is in: I'm predicting a plus-sized winner this season.
