The Old Van

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When I was growing up, my dad had a van. A really old van. And not old in the classic-vintage-any-kind-of-cool-way van.

Just old.

And dirty.

Not dirty old man.

But dirty old van.

Although, I hope to one day be called both.

Wha-?!

I have spent my adult life searching for a van with the insides that could match that one. The one from my memories. With the interior so covered in dog hair and dust that when you slid the door open, it appeared as though my father was throwing magic confetti into the air.

If magic confetti was made out of dog hair.

Which I am quite positive it is.

I am thinking I will never find a van quite like it.

My dad’s favorite color is blue. Every year he would paint his van a different shade of blue. Inevitably, it would chip or fade, so the van always had patches of different shades of blue peeking through it. It was like a blueberry jelly bean. Before they made blueberry jelly beans. It actually looked quite pretty paired with the rust. It had a special ombre effect decades before ombre would become fashionable.

When we were little we loved riding in the van. It had no unnecessary items. Such as seatbelts.

My sister and I would argue over who would get to ride in the front.

Looking back, I cannot quite figure out why this was. The front seat sat precariously balanced. Another unnecessary item in this van was the bolt that would have held the front seat in place. This meant that if you leaned back in the chair, it would topple over backwards.

We were a no frills family.

Seatbelts? Pfffft.

A seat that would stay in place? What are we? The Rockefellers?

Doors that stayed shut? Please. Those are for amateurs. Just don’t lean on the door and you’ll be fine. As in, you won’t tumble out onto the moving road. Or rather onto the road from the moving vehicle. I use the word “vehicle” loosely. It was more like the blue ride of terror.

I will never forget when my little sister was two.

I was pouting in the back of the van. Sitting as close to the console as I could get, away from the back. I was scared of the depths of the van. In fact, I never went back there. It was where all of the magic confetti was made. Too much of that stuff and I was sure I would drift into the dust motes that clung to the carpet as they unsuccessfully avoided being made into illustrious scraps of crap.

I was glowering at my sister who had once again scored the fun seat. The seat up front. She was busy spinning and trying as hard as she could to keep her balance so the seat would not topple into the back where I would surely hold her for ransom in an attempt to claim her throne.

It happened so quickly.

One moment we were being jostled down the dirt road that led to our house from my grandparent’s home. And the next moment, the front door had swung open.

And my little sister. My two year old little sister was holding on to the open door by the window frame. Dangling there like an unfortunate mountain climber in an action movie.

Or an unfortunate child of the eighties before there were laws concerning the safety of automobiles.

I will admit to laughing. I had no idea how dangerous the situation was. I thought she was just up to her old tricks. She was the dare devil. I seriously thought she was purposefully hanging onto an open door.

It was awesome.

And then she let go.

And my mom freaked the freak out.

She stopped the van.

She was terrified that she had run my sister over.

But she had merely fallen out. There was not a scratch on her.

It had to be all of that magical confetti.

We were always covered in the stuff.

You would think it was at this point that something in or on the van would change. Such as, I don’t know, adding a little fancy somethin’ like a bolt to a seat or a screw to the door.

Or a seatbelt for a toddler.

Nonsense!

The only thing changing on that van was which color blue it would be from one day to the next.

If you got black and blue from riding in the van. Well, you just matched it better.

We are going to fast forward this story to when I was thirteen. Seven years had passed since my sister’s little incident. The van had not changed. Or rather, I am sure it was still being painted yearly and the magical confetti had now had seven years to grow bigger. Thicker. Fuller. As we acquired more and more dogs to ride in the van (a story for another day).

We had a bus lane at our school. For buses. Let me repeat. For BUSES!

But my dad, well, my dad would pull up in the bus lane whenever he would pick me up. From Junior High School. It would go yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. Yellow.

No one ever told him to move. They were much too in awe of his van.

I would, as quickly as I could manage, run up to the van. Yank it open, pause to admire the magic confetti as it swarmed into the sunlight intent on infecting delighting anyone who passed by, and then jump into the back as fast I could. Why the back? You ask.

I think maybe I was humbled by how amazing my ride was and maybe I did not want anyone seeing who was in the blue van. I did not want to be hounded with autographs. Did I mention the back seat had no windows? Yea. I was incognito in my coolness.

Years later I would learn that my little sister would make my dad park a block away from that junior high school so that she would not have to be bombarded by fans. You know. The fans that would swarm that awesome van.

Or at least, that is what I assumed.

My dad always fondly tells the story of how I was not embarrassed of his method of transportation. Of how my sister was so mean to make him park so far away. Of how I was the good daughter that allowed the van to truly shine. Where it did not belonged.

In the bus lane.

Of course.

I did not have the heart to tell him it just never occurred to me to ask him to park elsewhere.

The thought just never came.

You can blame it on my immaturity. My true love for the van. My desire for fame.

But we all know the truth.

The real culprit was the magic confetti.

I snorted too much of it.

I became an addict.

And then it was taken away. Sold. Never to be seen again. It went to a dealer. And I’m not talking cars.

I’m speaking of nostalgic shrapnel. Flakes of time. Decades. Of. Laughter. And screams.

That must be the reason that whenever I see a van the color of the sky, I grin widely and rush forward to peer inside.

To get a whiff.

Of blue painted dust mote magical memories.

The Talent Show

My mind has been thinking about Whitney Houston and her daughter all month. It reminded me of a moment in time when one of Whitney Houston’s songs taught me an important life lesson. I decided to share it here. My thoughts continue to be with her family.

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When I was twelve, my friends and I got together and decided we were going to perform as a group in the school talent show. After much deliberation, it was decided that we would sing “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles. We practiced at every snack and lunch break.

Now, here is where I need to insert information about my singing voice. All of us girls were in the school choir. It was offered during lunch break on select days. This was before the time when schools actually had to give kids time to eat. The choir was run by this horrible old woman, whose name has long since escaped me. She would walk down the aisles while we were singing and pick on girls. “You,” she would screech, “you’re out!”

The girl would run away in tears never to be seen again.

She was Simon Cowell, before Simon Cowell was Simon Cowell.

One day we were practicing a song for a performance that never did take place. I truly believe she just pretended there would be a recital just to torment us. I noticed she was coming down my row. My stomach churned.

“Who is making that racket?”, she cackled.

Oh, I knew in my heart it was me. I could just tell. My heart started pounding and my hands became sweaty. So, naturally, I stopped singing and began lip syncing. I thought if I stopped, she would just keep going down the aisle. But she didn’t. She had all ready announced that someone was singing poorly. She had to save face. Or maybe she was just itching to ruin a young girl’s day.

She stopped short of me and said to the girl on my left, whose name was Lisa (name changed) and she happened to have a beautiful voice, “It was you! Get out!”.

Poor Lisa. She had thick gorgeous hair down to her waist. She was a nice girl and I have always felt guilty for not being the one kicked out of choir. Don’t feel too sorry for Lisa, though. She later went on to marry the most beautiful boy in high school.

All right, so us girls were breaking out on our own. We were going to sing a song the old woman hadn’t picked. So, we practiced for two weeks. And the day before the big talent show the principal informed us that he would not approve our song. Apparently, because the lyrics said “I watch you when you are sleeping,” it was too much of a sexual risk for the school. So, what were us girls going to do? Well, the teacher happened to have a Whitney Houston tape and thought it would be a fantastic idea for us to sing, “The Greatest Love of All.” Whitney Houston was really big at the time and being out of ideas, we all agreed.

No, wait, that is not what happened.

I agreed.

My friends, being the socially smart kids that they were, backed out. They decided it was way too risky (as in social suicide) to get in front of an auditorium of not only our peers, but EIGHTH GRADERS, and sing a song we had not practiced. Not me, though, I was in it to win it. I had committed to doing the talent show and I was going to do it. I stayed up an extra two hours that night memorizing the lyrics.

Being the talented girl that I am, I can still recite to you every word of that song to this day. Maybe, because I am smart, but probably because the terror ingrained itself into my head.

My mother took me shopping for a new outfit. It was so pretty. It was a kelly green striped shirt with a matching poofy kelly green skirt. I would probably wear the same outfit today, which probably does not bode well for my fashion sense.

I was ready. My hair was sprayed into a glorious fan shape on top of my head. My imitation Keds were gleaming white. All set!

I remember stepping in front of the whole school and the sound of Whitney Houston’s voice blasting out of the speakers. They had handed me a microphone, but all you could hear was Whitney. So there I was. The eighth graders were the kids closest to the front, because they got prime billing. And I could see their pores. And I could see them snickering. I just sang away and no one could hear me. Which would have gone swimmingly, had the teacher not decided it was too much Whitney Houston, and not enough Jenni. And she turned the sound down. My voice screeched across the auditorium, I could hear it ringing back to me, and it wasn’t good. And it was very loud. But I kept going. I finished the song and hurried off the stage.

I was mortified. I was angry at my friends for “making” me go up alone, but I was mostly disappointed with myself. But then something amazing happened. After the talent show, one by one, three lovely eighth grade girls came up to me. “You were so brave.”. “You did great!”. “I love your outfit.” Each kind word was music to my soul. My embarrassment became not quite as painful. I began to feel pride that I had done it. I hadn’t done it well, but I had tried.

Every now and again, I like to remind myself of that seventh grade moment. A moment when I conquered my fears and reached for something. Of course, to this day, if that song comes on the radio, I turn red and immediately change the station. But it wasn’t all bad. Most moments in life aren’t… Thank you Whitney.

Not Feeling It

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I wore this all day. I was having a really hard time getting the gumption up to put an outfit together. Thankfully, this Free People jersey dress is pretty much like wearing pajamas. And I would have worn them as such if I had not borrowed my son’s deodorant that day (without his knowledge) and been knocked over by the smell of Old Spice. How do men do it? The aroma of the men’s deodorant clung to my dress and I could not sleep in it. I am used to baby powder. By the way, who decides that baby powder scent is for girls and mountain air is for boys? I was explaining my dilemma to my husband while I whined in bed and he looked around for an escape route.

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“What happened to your deodorant?” He asked like a grown up.

“I don’t know. It was just gone.”

He got up and went in to the bathroom. I watched him with a faint amount of interest.

“You mean this deodorant?” He asked as he held up my little blue container that had been sitting in direct line of sight in the middle of the counter.

“Wow! I don’t know how that got there!” Then I erupted into a cackle of lunar laughter that made my husband reevaluate the exits in our house again.

My point?

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Um, yea, sure… I had one.

Okay. I got it!

Don’t use your son’s deodorant.

And also, I’m pretty sure my deodorant is possessed.

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That day was hard. Deodorant issues aside.

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I felt as though all of my imagination was sucked dry. Maybe the deodorant worked too well.

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I just threw this dress on with some black tights and my newest popback score, these Freebird Boots I snagged for 85% off at Anthropologie. It was kind of amazing how just wearing something I liked made me feel a little better.

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I wanted to pair this dress with my striped blazer from last year. I would have loved to show it with some light colored denim skinny jeans. To me, that would have been perfect. But instead I kept the tights on. Maybe you can imagine I am wearing skinny jeans. And while you’re at it, maybe you could put me in my deodorant and not an eleven year old boy’s.

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I hope your imagination is better than mine.

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Have you ever lacked the incentive to get dressed? Have you ever used someone else’s deodorant? Do you know what kind of exorcism I could perform on mine? I think I saw it move again. It’s either that or my imagination might be coming back. I am quite sure it is the former. Which really just proves the latter.

Oi. I need to do something about these fumes.

Dreaming: Grandma’s Gift

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Something was chasing me. It was fast, but not quite fast enough to catch me. It was probably some sort of zombie creature if I were to guess, because zombies are the things that make my blood run cold. The atmosphere was grey. What were once tall and majestic buildings were now piles of crumbling rubble. The gravel of the desolate city crunched beneath my boots.

I turned the corner and saw a lone structure still standing in the midst of the ruined city. It appeared to be a form of catacombs.

I ducked into the entrance to catch my breath. My heart was pounding. My pursuers were near.

Someone grabbed my arm.

I turned to scream, but it gurgled in my throat in recognition of the person who stood before me.

It was my grandmother, whom in life had passed away two years prior. I began to frantically ask her questions. “What was she doing here? Was she okay? What was I supposed to do?”

But she shook her head in response. She put her finger to her lips to summon me to be quiet.

Then she grabbed my elbow and began leading me further down into the catacombs. My head felt dizzy with exhilaration at seeing her again. The zombie creatures were almost forgotten.

We came to a dead end. A huge unyielding stone wall blocked our escape. I began to panic at the thought of being stuck down here trapped by the creatures who were surely on our trail. But again, my grandma shook her head. She inserted a key into a keyhole that I could not see into the wall. It twisted and turned and a small doorway opened. My grandmother gestured for me to go through the door.

I hurriedly did so. She followed me and locked the door behind us. The wall melted in upon itself and became whole once more. We were safe.

In fact, we were more than safe. We were in a new area. A new dream.

It was a dome-like structure covered in glass. It was bright and sunny although I could not see the sky nor anything outside of the dome. It raised above my head about thirty stories tall. There were no buildings inside of it. Just a giant tree that raised almost to the ceiling. I had a feeling that the dome grew tall as the tree did, so that the tree itself would never reach its top. I could hear birds chirping in its massive branches. The air was calm and cool.

I turned to my grandma.

She smiled at me. She led me to the edge of the grass and placed her hand at the small of my back. And then she pushed me gently.

I started to fall forward but instead of falling, I was caught in the air. Inside the dome I could fly. I wobbled at first, but soon I was taking experimental turns ten feet off of the ground. My grandmother’s face beamed up at me in delight. I soared higher, skimming the tree’s outstretched branches with my fingertips. The freedom and happiness bubbled up inside of me as I glided round and round inside of the dome.

The gift that she gave me in the dream was beautiful. The gift of the dream, itself, was even better.