Driving school

e finally crawled out from under the debris of our kitchen, marvelled at the sunlight, and decided to go to the movies.

We like to park in the secret lot next to the theater. Most people just drive right by it but we've found that it's exactly the same distance from the front doors as the best handicapped space. I think we actually rubbed our hands together in evil glee the first time we parked there and there's a little spark of joy every time we turn that corner into a nearly empty lot. Much like we did the other day, parking, against all odds, directly next to the only visible vehicle, a green minivan. That was rocking. Side to side. Rhythmically.

Now it's been a long time since the 70s. But I seem to recall a certain bumper sticker popular on customized vans, Ford pintos, and AMC Pacers:

If this van's a'rockin'--don't bother knockin'!

The 70s were a more innocent time. For one thing, we didn't have Google or the Simpsons. If I wanted to learn something I had to walk to the library. Hence, when faced with the mysterious applique de bumper, it took me ten years to figure out they were talking about the horizontal mambo.

However, the other day, as I'm getting out of the car, I noticed the familiar rhythm of the van next to us and that bumper sticker came back asap. As I got out of the car, the sun shown through from the other side and I saw the silhouette of two, dainty, sandal-clad feet, heels to Jesus, flailing along with the back-n-forth of the Chrysler.

I turned to grin at My Attorney, who had yet to see the dancing van and remembered my daughter. You remember her. She stood there, mouth agape, hand to her chest, face paralyzed in the apoplectic realization that was within just a few feet of actual people actually, um, putting me in a position whereupon I should refrain from knocking.

Her cousin, only 13, but gifted, highly observant, and cool as a cucumber, was trying to stifle a perfectly ridiculous 13 year old girly response to the van, which was nearly tipping over as it wanged side to side. Both girls' eyes were so wide you could've parked a . . . a um, minivan, um, in them.

And it was too late. Nothing I could do. And I couldn't stop laughing. I hustled everyone away, as My Attorney was busy talking about how close we'd parked and Roon was still talking excitedly about some microscopic detail in a video game. Me and the aghast teens were the only ones who'd seen it.

I tried to put it aside. I mean, these things happen. To the Simpsons. But every fourteen seconds my Daughter would blurt out minivan and they'd erupt into riotous, lusty laughter which pretty much eroded all confidence in their immediate future as innocent school girls.

What I'm really mad about, however, is that in the once moment in my life when I was confronted by a van that was, asssuredly, a'rockin' I completely forgot to bother knockin'. That would've been hilarious.