Car Pipe Dreams, Vibrating Beds and French Fried Potatoes

On road trips as a child, my sister Bridget and I played a car game where we’d pretend that a certain car that passed us on the highway would become, say, my first car, or the next family car, or my sister’s car.  We played agressively, because we had a very shitty car and because we knew even then that we’d probably keep shitty car for thirty years, which we did.   The only respite from shitty car was our indulgence in car pipe dreams, via this game. “The fifth car that passes us will be dad’s next car!” someone would shout, which was a joke in iteslf because my dad’s daily driver was a Raleigh road bike.  And then there would be a lot of screaming at my dad to speed up or slow down depending on what was going to pass us next.  It didn’t matter really, it was always a nicer car than the one we were in. “Roll up the windows kids!” my dad would say sometimes. “Let’s make people think we have air conditioning!”  Which was insanity.  The only thing worse than not having air conditioning in a navy blue Volvo with vinyl seats in the summer, was pretending we didn’t have air conditioning.

The car game was often played on the way to a campsite.  The place my sister and I loved the best was Yosemite.  Not for all the usual reasons, like the granite and waterfalls and shit, but for the Evergreen Lodge, which we stayed at for a night as we made our way into the valley.  The Evergreen Lodge had a french fry vending machine.  You put your money in and watched as it dumped a handful of frozen french fries into oil, cooked them and then deposited them into a cardboard container and sent them down a chute to you.  I tell people this story and they’re like ha ha a french fry vending machine, that sounds imaginary.  But I swear it was real.  Bridget and I talk about it once a year or so, wistfully, in the same way you might remember a beloved pet.

We need a model whose hair will make people think of french fries...Perfect!

I actually remember little about the Yosemite trips themselves. When the junk food staples at home are carob chips, rice cakes, and peanut butter that needs a half hour of stirring before it’s spreadable, (yeah, I’m looking at you Laura Scudder) a vending machine that distributes french fries is not easily forgotten.  The only thing that topped the french fry vending machine at Evergreen Lodge were the vibrating Magic Fingers beds.  My sister and I would pump a few quarters into the nightstand, settle in side by side on the shuddering bed and maul our french fries like starving animals.   If you’re thinking, what is she talking about with the quarters and the shaking beds…you were never poor.

Anyway.  Where was I going with this.

Right camping.  We just got back from camping.  I complained a lot before we went but honestly it was vastly improved over the last trip – which I documented here.  There was fairly minimal whining, the kids all played nicely together and one particularly awesome person brought the makings for a delicious cocktail made of lychee juice and vodka infused with passion fruit.  The result tasted like melted Dreamcicles.

By the time it was evening, I was tired, but I knew the adults would be staying up by the campfire, drinking well into the night.  Earlier, one of the moms told her husband (as he was setting up the tent) to set it up somewhere very flat: “I’m going to have the spins tonight, and a sloping tent won’t work for me.”  I have to admire someone who plans for the spins.  Anyway, my goal on these trips is always to lie down with the kids, wait until they are asleep, then sneak out and get my drink on with the cool parents by the fire.  But then I lie down and ten minutes later, I’m passed out with my mouth ajar.

Same thing happened this time of course, only in the middle of the night I was woken up by Ivy who alerted me that she’d peed herself.  This meant she had also soaked her sleeping bag and her side of the tent.  She was also naked which was puzzling because she definitely went to bed in pajamas. “Where’s your diaper Ivy?” I asked her. Asking Ivy anything is relatively pointless because she usually makes up some nonsensical answer like: in the river by the castle. Or she employs her most recent tactic, which is to involve Claudia, the dog. “Why is your mermaid doll in the toilet Ivy?” “I saw Claudia do it,” she’ll say. “Where is your jacket?” “Claudia is wearing it.” And so on.  I knew that if I pressed Ivy about the diaper, she’d blame the dog for renting a car,  learning to read a map, growing opposable thumbs, affixing stilts to her Jack Russell/ Chihuahua/ mystery dog legs, so she could operate the gas and brake, driving into the woods, finding our tent and stealing Ivy’s diaper.

So I didn’t bother.  I pulled her into my sleeping bag and after a while she said, “Tell Clyde to scoot over.” Which was odd because Clyde was two kids away from her, so why he was a problem for her was a mystery.  I asked her why and she said. “Because he stinks like pee!” Actually Ivy, you stink like pee and all the scooting in the world is not going to get yourself away from yourself.  Later I heard what sounded like a small child vomiting and I thought, well at least I just have pee in my sleeping bag.

The hardest part of the camping trip was leaving because we had to leave early.  We’d switched weekends with my ex-husband who normally would have had the kids memorial day weekend. But that meant we needed to bring them home on Sunday so he’d still get a day with them.  None of the kids wanted to leave, least of all Hazel.  I’d prepped her because I knew she wouldn’t want to leave when the time came.  She seemed okay with it, but then when it was time to go, I found her crying with her friends in one of the other tents. “Why does she have to go?” one of her friends asked.  And I had to explain, which is hard when all the other kids have intact families.  These are always my hardest moments, the times when my children have to do something they don’t want to do because of the divorce.  On the way home Hazel wouldn’t talk to us and turned her head away so I couldn’t see her face.  When we got to her dad’s house she gave me a hug and told me she was sorry for not talking to me.  I told her she was very brave, which is what I say when I don’t know what to say.

I guess this post took a turn towards sad, so as a final note, I’ll just let you know that you can buy Magic Fingers for your bed at home.  Judging by their website, they are not exactly raking it in, which is baffling to my childhood self.  Also, it doesn’t come with the box to put the quarters in, so not really as good, but maybe you could just leave a piggy bank by the side of the bed and put them in there.

Tagged as: claudia, Clyde, custody, divorce, Hazel, ivy