the vanagon.

My friends called it "pimpin'." Some called it "bad ass." I called it a "piece of shit." Words can not begin to translate the depth of my feelings for this van. Here are just a few that come to mind. Loathed. Repulsive. Ugly. Embarrassing. dkjfsiehlkfsd.

Before you go judging me for being unhealthily disgusted about a van, allow me to explain. This was the Komsthoeft family vanagon. The ultimate seventy's vehicle. An irritating head-turner on the highway. And a teenagers world nightmare. Our van was notorious. Everyone knew it and made it known. The van gained it's fame and popularity with my peers, but I shamefully ignored any attention it received. I can't even count the number of times it was referred by my friends to apply for the show "pimp my ride." I mean, seriously? The whole world didn't need to see my heinous van "pimped out" on MTV. It already attracted too much attention. As if it needed flames and spinners. Worst. Idea. Ever.

This was my transportation to and from school, soccer games, cheerleading practice, piano lessons, family vacations, slumber parties, and school dances. I have scarring memories of my dad waiting outside the circle drive of my school in the van. He would roll down the windows and doze off into a loud snoring state as his opera-like music radiated throughout the parking lot. Now, I look back at these moments and adore my dad even more for his weirdness, but as a 13-year-old girl, I was petrified. I was convinced if I had to ride one more time in that thing, I would surely become the most mocked kid at Santa Fe Trail Junior High.

Don't get me wrong. My siblings and I have some great memories in that volkswagon. It was convenient for long road trips. It's the most spacious van I've ever been in, which is greatly needed when you're riding with 6 other family members. We would fold down all the backseats and create a bed. Toss in some pillow, blankets, and a small t.v., and you're good to go for the next 9 hours before arrival at Grandma's.

For those of you who have no idea what my family van looks like, here is an exact replica. Same color. Same ginormous windshield. And on the other side is the obnoxious sliding door.

Why my mother was so attached to this thing, I will never understand. The amount of money my parents put in to fix it numerous times could have well payed for a decent chunk of a new car. Years later, when the van became nothing more of an embarrassing yard display, we invested in a new van. However,  my mother still has yet to sell it, or take my suggestion in pushing it over a canyon. It's been at least 6 years since it has been driven. Today, it is still parked in the front yard of my home. I'm afraid the poor grass underneath it has not seen sunlight in so many years, that it has no hope of ever growing back. I don't even know the last time someone has touched that car. I wouldn't be surprised if someone was hiding a dead corpse in that thing.

I think years down the road, if and when, my parents sell our house, the vanagon will have to come as part of the deal. Or maybe I'll go completely hippy. I'll paint "love" and peace signs all over, move to San Fransisco, and live out of the van near a pretty park. I'll have all I'll never need. A home. A van. And all the memories of the people I love most. Life will be good.

monday. shitday.

All Mondays are bound to be shitty. This theory is engraved in every young mind from the day one starts kindergarten. It's the most dreaded day of the week. I even found myself hating Mondays when I was jobless nor in school. I spent my days sleeping in, going for long runs, and drinking coffee outside starbucks. I followed this routine throughout the whole week and if you would have caught me at any given time I probably wouldn't have been able to tell you the day of the week. However, once I was reminded it was Monday, I fell into a slump. Mondays just brought attention to the fact that I was no longer a student, and an unemployed non-student at that. There I was sippin' on the $5.00 latte I couldn't afford while the rest of the world was out working or in sitting inside a classroom. Well, not the whole world. I realize there are far too many couch potatoes out there, but you get my point. I was a lazy bum. I hated the reputation I created for myself, but in retrospect, was also content with my carefree lifestyle. Even now being employed, I'm still apprehensive whenever Mondays rolls around. When I was in college I had a 8:00 am Sociology lecture on Monday mornings. Again, it was the least favorite part of my week. Mondays are just not meant to be satisfying.

The average life expectancy of a female in the United States is 79.1 years. Now, my grandmother is 81 years old, so clearly my family genes defy those statistics. But lets say I live to be 79.1-years-old. That means, say August(ish) 2068, you read in the headlines of your local newspaper (or on your msn homepage assuming newspapers will be obsolete by that time) that a 79-year-old woman dies in a freak hang gliding accident. (c'mon, if you think i'm going to go simply on my deathbed, you are sadly mistaken.) By my dying day, which I bet you will take place on a Monday, I will have lived approximately 4,124 grueling Mondays throughout my entire lifespan. Four thousand, one hundred twenty four Mondays. About a quarter of those I have already experienced. Enough experience to know Mondays usually suck.

I think we can all agree that Mondays are no ones favorite, but lets face it...they occupy 1/7 of your life! From here on out, I vow to do something every Monday that makes me happy. Something that gives me a reason to look forward to that day. I don't need a reason to hate a day before my alarm has gone off. Can I get an amen?