I outed myself.
I am now out and proud.
My name is Emily. I drive a minivan. And I fucking love it.
There it is.
If you thought TLC was only good for shows featuring women with doulas who swear they won't get an epidural and then rip their husband's heads off and throw them across the room at 2 cm, and fat women trying on wedding dresses...
well you were wrong.
Cut to the show "My Strange Addiction," featuring Joe Schmo.
Just your average dude: goes to work, goes grocery shopping, pays his bills, has sex with his car.
Wait.
What?
You're thinking this man is crazy. I thought the same thing.
Then I met this big beautiful beast:
I could dry hump this minivan. That is how much I love it. I understand you Joe Schmo; I'm not judging you.
'Previously loved' (I prefer that term to 'used') by Michael's grandmother, who graciously offered to switch vehicles with us seeing as how we needed more space, and she needed a smaller car that was easier to get to Bingo.
At first mention of this potential transaction, I threw up a little in my mouth and became very hostile. I thought this has to be a fate worse than death.
Worse than vaginal tearing.
Worse than an allergic reaction to the adhesive in the hospital pads, that causes you to end up with hives on your hoo-haw.
**Quick side note: This is actually possible:
It is a fate worse than death, which leaves me fully convinced that Osama Bin Laden should not have been killed, but given penis hives.
For the rest of his life.
I'm quite sure there is some kind of expert scientist that could have worked that out.
I hope someone important reads this, and takes note (highly unlikely): Weaponized Ass Hives. You heard it here first.
Back to my story, I was convinced this meant my life was over.
But no.
This minivan changed my life.
The doors open at the touch of a button.
The kids wave happily to each other from their very own captain seats (well Addie can't wave, but she kind of grunts and I can tell that she loves it).
I pack in groceries, pool toys, back packs, snacks, 100 gallon containers of laundry detergent from Costco, double strollers, single strollers, travel strollers, jogging strollers, bike trailers, herds of small domestic animals and the 500 trucks that Henry has to take where ever we go.
Most importantly all four of us fit in it. At one time. With out someone's ass in someone else's face and the passenger seat pushed so far forward that shotgun is actually on the hood.
The kids have their own vents. Which I realize is not new...but in my world it's very new.
I used to gauge how long we could run errands in the summer by the redness of Henry's face.
Is he approaching heat stroke, or do I have time to run to Target?
After all my ramblings (you'll have to excuse me, I'm really out of blogging practice) the take home message is:
Minivans are better than vagina hives.
Much better.
If you have children buy one immediately, if not sooner.
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