Angela Dove: Award-Winning Writer

I’m fairly accustomed to making a fool out of myself, but lately I’ve wondered if it’s entirely my fault. Frankly, I’m starting to suspect my minivan.

A year ago, we purchased the van as a means to cope with having one child in soccer and another in dance theater (and let me tell you, the latter comes with far more gear to haul around). Shortly thereafter, the trouble began.

Case #1:

     Mere weeks into van ownership, I had a chance meeting with a business associate in a parking lot. I sat in the driver’s seat, door ajar, while the gentleman stood on the other side of the door, near the hood of the van, and we chatted through the big open window in the door. We wrapped up our conversation about a potential upcoming business collaboration when he mentioned that his wife was considering getting a van.

     “They’re great!” I enthused. “We can haul our dogs and kids, visibility is fabulous, and it’s very easy to drive.” I gestured toward the console and my hand accidentally hit a button. Washer fluid shot from the windshield like a geyser, cascading over the man. He jumped back in time to avoid the second spray.

    “Oh my gosh! I’m so, so sorry!” I said, fumbling to turn off the wipers and instead turning on the rear wiper. It made an embarrassing, stuttering sound as it scraped across the dry window.

     “Well, I better go,” the man said, wiping fluid from his glasses with the edge of his business shirt.

     “Again, I’m sorry,” I said. And then I heard my voice say the very idea that had just popped into my head. “But I bet your glasses are really clean now.”

     “And my tie,” he replied, unamused.

Case #2:

     Several months ago I was leaving a shopping strip that was full to overflowing despite a torrential rain. A woman in a Ford Taurus pulled up next to me and, through a series of gestures, ascertained that I was leaving. Gratefully she followed me to my burgundy van and waited as I pushed the remote to open the door.

     Nothing happened.

    I shrugged and located the vehicle key. About to slide the key home, I suddenly realized this wasn’t my van at all. There was a beep from the car behind the Ford. “Crap” is close to what I muttered. Avoiding the woman’s gaze, I walked—head down—to my van two spaces behind her. I had walked right by it. The annoying, beeping driver backed up to take my space as the Ford sped away.

Case #3

     Last week as I dropped my daughter off at school, I noticed a burned out brake light on the car ahead of me. Trying to helpful, I jumped out of my van and ran up to the driver’s side window. When I knocked on the glass the drive jumped 4 inches off her seat. Then she eyed me with suspicion as I tried to put on a grin that said, “Hi, I’m friendly and not at all dangerous or deranged!” She rolled down her window, not entirely convinced that was the best course of action.

     “Your rear—“ I said, then stopped.

     In retrospect, I believe that if I had already had my morning coffee, I would have been able to remember the phrase “passenger-side brake light,” but for the life of me I could not. Instead, I had banged on this woman’s window, scared her, and mentioned her “rear.” The knowledge that she was now completely convinced of my lunacy made it even harder to come up with the rest of the sentence.

     The moment stretched on indefinitely as the woman leaned well away from me and began to roll up her window again.

     “Brake light!” I shouted triumphantly. “Your rear passenger-side brake light! It’s out!”

     “Oh. Uh-huh,” she said, plainly hoping the asylum had figured out my escape and was even now baring down on the elementary school. She finished rolling up her window and drove away.

     Can it be coincidence that each event involved my minivan? I believe not. So, while it handles well, has  great visibility, and can haul a sports bag and 14 frost fairy costumes (wands included), I am writing the manufacturer to propose warning stickers indicating that drivers are not responsible for any idiocy that may ensue during vehicle operation.

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Angela Dove is an award winning humor writer and author of No Room for Doubt: A true story of the reverberations of murder. She welcomes your stories of self-humiliation at www.AngelaDove.com