Through one of the blogs I write for, I was approached to test drive a brand spankin' new car for a week. Sure, it's a minivan, which I ardently resist in my quest to be just a tad bit hipper or sassier or something than they convey in my over-analysis and my prideful aesthetics that easily conquer mommy pragmatism. But when they surveyed me thoroughly on my work, opinions and weekly activities and then swiftly approving all that, invited me to roll a fully-loaded 2008 Dodge Caravan during a week I'm displaced from my home and normal routine, I was actually excited. They had me at "We think you are one of just 50 socially and professionally influential women in Chicago." My next and clearly logical thought was about my shoes.
The cherry red wonder was dropped off this morning by two very polite young men who thoroughly explained every feature -- from the tailgate camera to the satellite radio to the two DVD players with wireless headphones to the remote start and swivel seats...the list goes so far that I kept saying "sweet!" like I am a 14-year old at her first Dave Matthews show at Soldier Field. This bad grrrl is amazing.
But my fear? My fear is that I will love it too much, get too used to voice-activated Justin Timberlake while my son's car sickness is usurped by Big Machines playing down the Kennedy. Or that I will redefine my MILFness (stop laughing) to include dual sliding doors to my mobile palace (kidding, kidding).
Perhaps the sweetest part of all is that Lil E and I have this ride for a whole week, that I'm not dependent on Bruce or my parents for a car or a lift, and that the only person I need to help me get us where we want to go is the nice lady with the smoky, calm voice who lives inside the GPS. I think we're all going to get along just fine over the next seven days, even if she presumes I'm all about soccer practice, vacuum sealing and sensible shoes.
Cross-posted at Chicago Moms Blog.