Got GoatMobile?

Originally titled, An open letter to the person I cut off on Rt. 36 in Mt. Vernon, Ohio on June 4, 2011, here is a repost from four years ago to prove that while the whole country is drunk from saying "popemobile" as many times as it collectively can, I've been saying GoatMobile for many years. 

Enjoy, I am back to work. --hh

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Hi.

From your point of view, I so deserved to get flipped off.

I tried to mouth I'M SORRY when we were at the stoplight, but you didn't seem to get my meaning. Was that your kid in the backseat? Cute kid.

That was a small car you were driving. You had all the windows open on a hot day, which is my preferred method of travel. I don't like A. C.

Here's the part you don't know: I wasn't in my regular Mini Cooper, which is small like your car. I was in the GoatMobile, which is a lot different and lot bigger than my Mini.

GoatMobile and your humble hostess (see upper left).

I was traveling with my Mom who really likes her A. C. Now I would have happily rode my Mom around in the Mini with the A. C. blasting, but the Mini is eight years old and the A. C. is about kaput: puffing out a feeble stream of barely cool air.

The Mini's A. C. reminds you of an old dog trying hard to get up out of his bed and say hello, which breaks your heart because you remember when he was a puppy jumping and yipping and wagging his tail so hard it hurt plenty when it snapped across your shin.

With Mom and me having a bit of driving to do, the Goat and I decided to switch cars for a day on account of the GoatMobile (being only one year old) still has puppy A. C. Not that I should be saying anything about it, but judging by the dents and rust and your red face in the hot wind, I'm guessing your car's A. C. woofed it's last woof a long time ago.

Does any of this makes sense?

We were headed to a function in Danville that had a start time and an end time and it was about a two-hour drive from home. I'd never been to Danville and I was worried about getting lost and the time and would my hair look okay when I got there and all the stupid crap that fills your brain when you should be paying attention to the road. Don't know if you saw, but that old gal was going so slow in front of me I could have screamed. I swear I checked when I went to pass her but the giant GoatMobile has blind spots I'm not used to. I just didn't see you.

Sorry.

Thank Christ you slammed on the brakes and horn or the rest of the day could have turned out bad all the way around.

Goat and Mini Cooper.

Although I'm much more comfy in my Mini and the Goat is much more comfy in the GoatMobile, sometimes odd combinations work. I don't know anything about you, but I know Mount Vernon is a place with a lot of your God Squad and your Don’t-Tread-on-Me/snake stickers. That said, the Knox County Democrats have their office down at the Square, so the folks around there have clearly learned to tolerate the odd men out.

Well, kind of tolerate.

Maybe that commentary doesn't have anything to do with you. Maybe you're not down with treading snakes or the God Squad. Maybe in another life, we'd get off on better footing, without me about to ram the big GoatMobile into your compact thinger-car (didn't catch the make/model). Until then, I'll try to be more careful. And if you don't mind, maybe you can give the next guy the benefit of the doubt before you flip him the bird.

Apologetically,

Erin

*  *  *

Guilty pleasures vol. ten: auto service appointments

I love auto service appointments.

Doughnut selection
Brunswick Auto Mart, 2013

I love using the free internet, drinking the free shitty coffee (I even put a shake of the generic brand powdered creamer in there), and meandering around the gleaming new cars with a blandly curious expression.

The bathroom at the Mini Cooper dealership was nicer than my whole house.

I mean COME ON, what about those doughnuts? Who'll take which one? And who doesn't love watching a sales guy try and sneak a pink frosted wonder with sprinkles when no one's looking (but you can bet I am, Mr. Sales Guy).

One time at the Brunswick Auto Mart there was a play area for kids that had a really cool looking toy. I didn't play with it, but I wanted too.

Here's a movie I made during a 2009 service visit at the Mini Cooper dealership.

Like I noted in the vid, the Mini dealership always had fancy snacks: tiny frosted cupcakes and your higher-end cookies and bars. I didn't care about any of that, but the bagels? Who the hell isn't going to eat a big chewy pizza bagel courtesy of Mini Cooper?

This one time, I was eying the last pizza bagel and what the hell happens? Some skinny Mini Cooper chick in really high heels starts orbiting the snack table like she might snap up that last pizza bagel.

So I go online (using the free internet [ha!]) and ask the twitterverse what I should do.

"If she takes it, knock her down!"

"Run over there right now and push her out of the way."

When she just got tea and moved back to her reception area domain, I went and got the bagel.

"Stand down," I tweeted. "The O'Brien's got the pizza bagel."

That's the sort of edge-of-the-seat drama that plays out when you're at your auto service appointment.

My highest hope is to witness a manager giving a sales guy the evil eye for taking a doughnut. I imagine he'll clear his throat loudly, then say something like, "Stevens, meet me in my office when you have a chance," while pulling up the doughnuts-are-for-customers speech in his head.

Then Stevens will dither for a moment or two thinking, Do I put this cream-filled chocolate frosted beauty back in the box or not? After all, I already touched it.

I say he keeps it.

Vintage Microbus art, Brunswick VW dealership

As you may have surmised, this post was inspired by the VeeDubs' one-year scheduled service appointment. No, nothing cool happened like the skinny-chick-pizza-bagel thing or sales-guy-gets-popped-for-doughnut, but I didn't care.

I enjoy auto service visits so much, dear reader, it is not beyond me to saunter into a random dealership and act like a regular person waiting in the service lounge: use the free internet and see how fancy the bathroom is.

And if I opt to crash a Lexus or Mercedes dealership, image the snacks they'll have there. They might even have one of those snotty brews-a-cup-at-a-time coffee machines.

Heh heh heh.

*  *  *

Praise the Lord

The Mini Cooper hath gone to meetin'

* * *

An open letter to the person I cut off on Rt. 36 in Mt. Vernon, Ohio on June 4, 2011:

Hi.

From your point of view, I so deserved to get flipped off.

I tried to mouth I'M SORRY when we were at the stoplight, but you didn't seem to get my meaning. Was that your kid in the backseat? Cute kid.

That was a small car you were driving. You had all the windows open on a hot day, which is my preferred method of travel. I don't like A. C.

Here's the part you don't know: I wasn't in my regular Mini Cooper, which is small like your car. I was in the GoatMobile, which is a lot different and lot bigger than my Mini.

GoatMobile and your humble hostess (see upper left).

I was traveling with my Mom who really likes her A. C. Now I would have happily rode my Mom around in the Mini with the A. C. blasting, but the Mini is eight years old and the A. C. is about kaput: puffing out a feeble stream of barely cool air.

The Mini's A. C. reminds you of an old dog trying hard to get up out of his bed and say hello, which breaks your heart because you remember when he was a puppy jumping and yipping and wagging his tail so hard it hurt plenty when it snapped across your shin.

With Mom and me having a bit of driving to do, the Goat and I decided to switch cars for a day on account of the GoatMobile (being only one year old) still has puppy A. C. Not that I should be saying anything about it, but judging by the dents and rust and your red face in the hot wind, I'm guessing your car's A. C. woofed it's last woof a long time ago.

Does any of this makes sense?

We were headed to a function in Danville that had a start time and an end time and it was about a two-hour drive from home. I'd never been to Danville and I was worried about getting lost and the time and would my hair look okay when I got there and all the stupid crap that fills your brain when you should be paying attention to the road. Don't know if you saw, but that old gal was going so slow in front of me I could have screamed. I swear I checked when I went to pass her but the giant GoatMobile has blind spots I'm not used to. I just didn't see you.

Sorry.

Thank Christ you slammed on the brakes and horn or the rest of the day could have turned out bad all the way around.

Goat and Mini Cooper.

Although I'm much more comfy in my Mini and the Goat is much more comfy in the GoatMobile, sometimes odd combinations work. I don't know anything about you, but I know Mount Vernon is a place with a lot of your God Squad and your Don’t-Tread-on-Me/snake stickers. That said, the Knox County Democrats have their office down at the Square, so the folks around there have clearly learned to tolerate the odd men out.

Well, kind of tolerate.

Maybe that commentary doesn't have anything to do with you. Maybe you're not down with treading snakes or the God Squad. Maybe in another life, we'd get off on better footing, without me about to ram the big GoatMobile into your compact thinger-car (didn't catch the make/model). Until then, I'll try to be more careful. And if you don't mind, maybe you can give the next guy the benefit of the doubt before you flip him the bird.

Apologetically,

Erin

*  *  *

Mini post--UPDATED*

* for those who may have had trouble with one of the (ahem) links earlier today, your humble hostess has hopefully corrected the problem.

* * *

Hello.

I am at the Mini Cooper dealership waiting for my Mini Cooper to get serviced. They have free wifi, hence this post. Please lower your expectations and enjoy.

-The new Mini Coopers think they are cooler than my '03 Mini Cooper, but they are wrong.

-This YouTube was sent to me by an Owner's Manual visitor. I will allow him to reveal himself if he so chooses.



I love the martini that shows up at he beginning of "Round Two"

-Here's a dirty picture just for philbilly.

-You want to blow all your gas out after that dirty pic? Dig the sort of thing I write for money.

-The Mini Cooper service guy thinks I'm wearing purple underwear. I am not. (It's a long story.)

-I love this guy: I am writing you today.

-Oh man peeps, I am having fun live-tweeting this stay at the Mini Cooper dealership! Hope some of you are following me.

-I call the color of my Mini Cooper "Dr. Pepper." They don't have it any more (no, my Mini Cooper is not one of those pictured. Those Mini Coopers are still waiting.)

-I love my Mini Cooper.

* * *

**Almost** live blogging: Coopership

Driving with Jesus

While I was in the supermarket the other day, someone placed a religious flyer beneath my windshield wiper. I didn't notice it until I was buckled up and ready to go, so I took my chances and pulled out.

As I drove home, the flyer flapped away, but stayed affixed to the car as I suspected it would. It reminded me of this tongue-in-cheek documentary/reality show wherein the host hung out with "alternative" individuals. I don't remember much about it. But on one show, he traveled along with a Ministry that delivered the word by driving around in a van that had religious slogans painted on its side. There may have been a loudspeaker as well. I'm not sure.

"So by driving around like this we're actually ministering?" asked the TV host.

"That's right," his guest replied. "We're delivering the Word right now."

So I've decided to keep the Jesus flyer on the Mini Cooper for a while. Will it fly off one day? What does it mean if someone removes it? If I let it get all tattered and rain-soaked, is that some sort of desecration? Am I subtly ministering by traveling along with this message? Maybe I'd better read it and make sure I'm not spreading some evil code hidden between the lines.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Amen.

Four boy Republicans

I am completely inundated with a difficult and lengthy essay. Hence, here is something I wrote a while ago that is nonetheless completely apropos for these turgid political times. I have published this in a couple of spots, so if it looks familiar, you are not seeing things. Enjoy.

I worked for Scriptype Publishing for five years. They publish local monthly papers here in Northeast Ohio. During my tenure there, President George W. Bush visited two of the communities Scriptype's papers covered (October 2003 in Broadview Heights and September 2004 in Richfield). I covered both events in a professional capacity, focusing mainly on what it was like for a municipality to host the president since the papers were apolitical.

Obtaining press credentials for a presidential visit is not difficult. Dubya wants to be on the cover of the any publication, no matter how humble its circulation. And he has a whole bunch of people who make sure the fearless reporters of said publication have no troubles getting in to say hello to the nation's top dog. Once the credentials are in hand, media personnel are moved quickly to the front of the endless line to get into the event. Be rest assured, Dubya is much more concerned about a reporter or photographer getting in to see him than his adoring constituents.

(And it is a satisfying moment indeed when a tattooed, pierced black lipsticked goth chick dripping in camera equipment is escorted right past a horde of patiently waiting conservatives and bustled inside just at the doors close for good. I know. I've seen it with my own eyes.)

Both events were unremarkable to me, except for the details. The secret service staff was composed of men who were simultaneously frightening and endearing. Armed security men peered from every corner of the properties surrounding the events (that's Men With Guns On Top Of Buildings). The White House press corps had a surprisingly normal appearance. (Baseball caps, rain slickers, sloppy tennis shoes.) Then again, what did I expect? A breathless Lois Lane with a shiny pageboy furiously scribbling in a notebook?

But this post is not about covering a Presidential campaign rally, it is about the aftermath of covering a Presidential campaign rally.

It is about four boy Republicans and your faithful girl writer.

When the rally concluded on Sept. 4, 2004, I stepped out into the stifling heat and humidity with the rest of the throng, most of whom were considerably more electrified than me (being in a room with 3,000 Republicans, excited nearly to ejaculation was, however and admittedly, a singular experience). The event was held at the local high school and the entire campus was a sea of gridlocked vehicles. I sauntered back to my car, opened the windows, put on some music and closed my eyes. There was no reason to contribute my Mini to the mass of Escalades and Hummers and Mountaineers.

After about 15 minutes, the lot was still quite jammed. But it had cleared out enough for me to see four young Republicans, all wearing ties and blue shirts exactly like the ones Dubya wears. They were milling around their Ford Escort, which was unique not only because the hood was open, but also because it was one of the few cars in the internal combustive mass that had a gas mileage of over 13 miles per gallon.

The boys looked young enough that I should probably remove the "girl" portion from my cloying third person self-title of "girl writer" (but I will not). They were worriedly looking around, jamming their hands in the pockets of their Good Pants and scratching their heads. One held a pair of jumper cables.

I scanned the crowded lot with disgust, sighed a great big sigh, started the Mini and drove over to the four boy Republicans.

They swelled with hope as I approached. "You boys look like you need a jump," I said.

"Sure do," replied one (each of the four was completely indistinguishable from the others: short hair [cut special for the event], bad ties, polite demeanors).

"I'll give you a jump," I said, pulling the pug nose of the Mini up close to their Escort. I popped the hood and got out of the car to make sure they didn’t short out my electrical system.

While the Escort was charging, I decided to take advantage of the indisputable power I had over the situation (had I asked, I think they would have performed a circle jerk without hesitation).

"I want you boys to do me a favor and take a look around," I said, indicating the surrounding sea of unmoving cars, in which moneyed white people sat in the comfort of cool manufactured air. I wiped sweat from my forehead. "And now take a look at my car." They turned their collective attention to the Mini. "Given my car and the fact that I am a reporter," I held up my press pass, "you boys go ahead and take a guess. Do you think I'm a Republican?"

They looked sheepishly at the ground and at each other. "Um, probably not," said one of the boy Republicans.

"That's right," I said, "I'm not a Republican. But I'll bet you boys are Republicans. Am I right?"

They looked at their feet. They nodded.

"You're in good company. There's a whole bunch of Republicans here," I said, looking over the hazy miasma of the campus-turned parking lot. "Funny thing, though," I sighed, crossed my hands over my chest and leaned against the Mini. "All these upstanding fellow Republicans of yours and not one of them drove over here to give you good looking young boys a helping hand."

The boy Republicans did not say anything. Instead, they went about the business of disconnecting the cables and starting their Escort, which elicited visible relief in all of them.

I closed the hood of the Mini and faced the boy Republicans. "Now tell me," I said, "did you learn something today?"

They nodded. One said, "Er, yes, ma'am." with uncertainty.

"Good," I said. "That's real good. Now I want you boys to remember exactly what you learned today and think hard about it when you go and cast your vote for the President of the United States. Can you do that for me?"

The boy Republicans indicated that they would.

I nodded and smiled, pausing for an uncomfortable moment to look each of them directly in the eye. "Well you go on now and have yourselves a good day."

They thanked me copiously as I got in my car and drove to the end of one of the lines, which were moving a bit faster by then.

Okay, so the Antichrist won anyway, but, hey, I tried.

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 24

In my column this week, I have a few things to say to the person who stole the very hat I'm wearing in my Rainy Day Woman photo!

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Be sure to include your full name and city. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Mini pornography and a red slipper link

Hello.

I am completely inundated, but I must address the minivan owner's out there. I'm sorry I said minivans are uncool in my last column, but this does NOT mean that I believe the owner's of minivans are uncool. Sometimes wistful for a little deuce coupe, yes, but not necessarily uncool.

One commenter pointed out that the DVD can be used for dubious purposes.

yay!

Any minivan owner who uses the DVD player to watch Adult Entertainment gets points--a lot of points. Particularly if it's with a significant other and while the kids are busy watching Night at the Museum upstairs in the den.

As for audio, playing "Torn and Frayed" by the Stones or Shaggy's "Oh Carolina" also gets minivan drivers lots of points. And although I can play music in my Mini Cooper, I cannot enjoy Adult Entertainment and a minivan is admittedly much more conducive to a conjugal visit than my Mini.

Now then, while I dig myself out of this hole, I offer up one half-naked wife who was hanging around here about a year ago.

Photo round-up, various goats, and a speculum

Okay, finally home for a while with sore legs and too much to do and a big smile. Missed you babies and all your blogs, will visit soon. Here's some dumb stuff:

Rock climbing in Hocking Hills, Ohio kicked ass in a big way you should go right now and just do it'a-fore you croak.

Racing the Mini around Nelson Ledges Racetrack and that rocked until I almost wiped out all over the place but thank flip I regained control it is cool.

Brother of Goat atop Hurricane Ridge YAY!

The Goat is tall and goodlookin too.

Brother of Goat said they had good burgers here but it was closed boohoo okay I'll just take a pic.

Not too much oxygen a mile up, but the top of Hurricane Ridge was about the most wonderfulest thing I ever saw we all climbed up there even the kids and it was hard but so good and I love it.

My garlic press looks like a speculum.

This post is done and I love you hello.

Silly

I drive a Mini Cooper.
I think it's super duper.
When I step on the gas
it goes real fast.
Until I go by a State Trooper.

Mini squirter, buffer, bird, stacked and a no-phone guy

A squirter on my Mini Cooper wasn't squirting, so I had to take it in to the BMW dealership. I waited while they fixed it.

I saw this there. I wonder if the people who own that car parked on the right are really rascals or if they just put it on the license to freak me out. Sorry about my finger at the bottom of the image.



A bird flew into a large plate glass window and hung out on the ground for a while. Then he sputtered away, sort of dizzy and disoriented. I know how he felt.



I think the bottom buffers are to buff shoes. But what do you buff with the top buffer?



They had a rack of cookies and muffins. I didn't take a picture of that, but I ate a cookie (white chocolate chip macadamia nut). It was in a cellophane package and was sort of chewy, but okay. I turned the TV from a soap to "Miami Ink" and then I acted like I wasn't watching it when a guy with a back pack came in. He used the house phone to call someone and I thought: guy doesn't even have his own phone and I'm worried about what he thinks of me for watching "Miami Ink?" Sheesh.

Then the BMW man came and told me my squirter was right as rain and I went home.

Apple stuffed Mini

Believe it or not, there was 44 feet of crown moulding, 40 feet of wainscote cap moulding, and 18 feet of screen bead moulding in the Mini when I took this picture. The lengths ranged from 8- to 12 feet.

You can fit pretty much anything in a Mini Cooper unless you are a candy-ass. I love it when I have an impossible cart of stuff and I'm in the Lowe's lot and all these guys go by saying moronic stuff like, "Looks like your trying to fit ten pounds of potatoes in a five pound bag, little lady," and I fit it all in there anyway. Shuts them right the hell up.


Oh yeah. I was also able to fit myself in there, too (duh, I had to drive). My daughter did not fit (had to flip all the seats weird). Don't worry. I didn't leave her at Lowe's. Grandma held onto her until I could unload all this crap.

I also bought this dumb hat and all these apples. I don't know why. Shit.

Gotta go and paint all this effing moulding. See you later.

The confines of ullage

You are using your razor-sharp logistical skills in order to fit $173.76 worth of groceries into the back of a Mini Cooper. You are sort of humming and sort of singing "Time will Tell," by the Black Crowes.

Just as you are basking in the satisfaction of fitting a plastic jug of milk into a space specifically defined by the walled confines of the hatchback and a bag containing Cocoa Pebbles, a box of Kashi breakfast pilaf and two boxes of frozen pretzels, a voice comes at you from behind.

"Excuse me."

You turn to find an ordinary looking woman behind a shopping loaded with bags that looks much like yours.

"Yes?" you say, trying not to think about the Edy's Double-Churned French Vanilla and the photons of sunlight cascading upon the carton in which it is contained.

"Are you familiar with the Arts and Entertainment Network?" says the woman.

You puzzle for a moment over fielding this question in the parking lot of the Tops Supermarket. "Er … yes," you say. "Yes I am."

"There's this one show on there?" continues the woman. "It's sort of like a lawyer show? On the Arts and Entertainment Network? Do you know the one I mean?"

"I'm not sure I do," you say.

"Oh," says the woman, deflating. "I was wondering if you knew it because I wanted to find out the name of the theme song to that show. I love that theme song." The woman mumble-hums some cryptic notes.

You blink as you process this and stop yourself from saying, "I can name that tune in seven notes!" Instead, you say, "Theme song, huh?" and wonder if you are on Candid Camera. "That's a toughie," you add, which is simultaneously moronic and appropriate.

"It's like a lawyer thing?" she says. "You know?" she continues with an earnest look and slowly begins bobbing her head. She recommences humming.

Edy's Double Churned French Vanilla. Photons. Blinking. Processing.

You sigh.

Why me?

"What you might do," you say because you are you and if you really needed to find the answer to this question you probably could and this broad is not you and clearly needs all the help she can get, "is look through the TV Guide and try to find the name of the program. I'm sure you'll recognize it when you see it. Do you have a computer?"

"Yes," says the woman with some indignation, "of course."

You nod and place your hands on your hips. "And Internet?"

"Of course we have the Internet," she says.

"Well then, pull up Google--you know Google?" you say.

"Of course I know Google," she says.

"Pull up Google and type in the name of the show and the words 'theme song' and see what you come up with."

The woman raises her hand in the glory of revelation. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Good effing question, lady.

"Couldn't say," you say, smiling and nodding politely. "Sometimes a person just needs to think things through out loud."

"That's exactly what I'll do," says the woman. "Google." She turns her cart into the remainder of the day.

Yes, you think, that really just happened, before consider the bag containing two loaves of bread and one bag of Tostitos and the ullage of the hatchback.

Three miles to the east, at the local hospital, a woman cries out in the pain of childbirth.

Two and a half miles to the west, in the master bedroom of a white Colonial with a two-car garage, a man gasps as he rounds the brink of climax.

On the continent of Asia, a woman cradles her husband's head as he exhales for the last time.

You roll your empty cart to the cart corral. You go home, draped in purple silk.

Puppy cars and shattered ice cream dreams

The bank clerk is wearing a shirt that has a stiff high ruffled collar that might have been rejected by Carrie Nation for being too conservative. I am standing before her, flattening out the myriad one dollar bills I have collected from fellow martini drinkers to whom I had sold books the night before.

"May I see your debit card?" she says. "To verify the account number?" I stop shuffling the bills. As my eyes move from the cashier window to my purse, they flit by the bank's side window out of which I can see my beloved Mini Cooper.

A crystal blooms in the Petrie dish of my mind, to which I pay no attention.

I retrieve my debit card and hand it to the clerk, whose accompanying nameplate says "Debbie" and my eyes pass over the Mini again.

The alignment of the bank's windowpane--my frame of reference--has subtlety but definitely changed its alignment with respect to the location of the Mini and two or three more crystals bloom, verifying crystal number one, which despite the fact that not even a second has passed since my original dismissal of it, I no longer can deny. I turn my full attention to the Mini.

Crystals in Petrie Dish of Erin's Mind

1. The window of the bank with respect to the location of the Mini is somehow in flux.

2. The bank is not moving.

3. You (owner and primary operator of Mini) are not in said Mini.

Equation Resulting from Crystals in the Petrie Dish of Erin's Mind

1. 2,600 pounds of Mini Cooper + four percent gradient of parking lot + the earth's inescapable force of gravity + manual transmission left out of gear + idiotic owner of Mini forgetting to engage parking brake = motion.

"SHIT!" I bark.

Debbie gasps.

I scramble to collect the tattered bills and, much to the dismay of the dozen people waiting behind the velvet rope behind me as well as that of Debbie, I say, "Shit!" again and add, "Be right back!"

I fly out of the bank, which is located in the center of the parking lot of a strip mall. By now, the Mini is gaining speed and is headed straight for the plate glass window of an ice cream parlor, inside of which, a handful of ice-cream eaters are looking out the window and forming a few crystals of their own.

At this juncture, I must stop and comment on my relationship with my car. I don't just like my Mini Cooper, I love it. It is small and cute and it makes people happy.

It's like a puppy.

It is also fast and smart and it doesn't take any more than it needs, all of which are qualities for which I strive. I love my Mini Cooper.

Hence, you can understand that the culminating moment of Erin and Mini and plate glass and ice cream and unengaged gears is catastrophic in many ways.

The Mini's path en route to the plate glass window is free and clear, save for the hump of sidewalk that lines the strip mall. I stumble insanely across the lot, one-dollar bills flying in my wake as I realize that although I might have neglected to engage the parking brake, I did not neglect to lock the car. I frantically fish for my keys, find them, drop them, stumble and pick them up, say "SHIT!" again and press the unlock button on the remote.

The rolling Mini politely responds by unlocking the driver's side door and turning on the interior lights.

The four or five ice cream eaters have by now decided that the Mini is anything but puppy-like and are abandoning their seats in front of the window with panic.

There is now only a parking curb between Mini and Rocky Road Parfait disaster as I reach out and open the door. I fly into the seat just as the Mini overcomes the curb. I frantically pull the parking brake, entirely certain that I am too late. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the sound associated with Mini Cooper versus security glass.

The Mini comes to a stop, exactly two inches from the window. I slump onto the steering wheel with overwhelming relief and silently vow to never again wear purple, to begin attending church and to invite my in-laws for dinner.

When I finally recover, I raise my head to see the ice cream parlor patrons standing before me, clapping. I offer a beleaguered wave and put the car in reverse. Me and the Mini pay the price of a tiny scrape and I drive backwards over the curb.

I return to the bank. The patrons who were standing in line are snorking and laughing and shaking their heads. One comes forth, an older man who is wearing a suit he undoubtedly purchased in 1973 that still fits him to a tee. He hands me some crumpled bills. "You dropped these," he says.

"Thank you," I say.

The scrape on the bottom of the Mini's bumper was not significant. My subsequent deposit that day was only one dollar short. To whomever did pick up the wayward dollar I dropped in my frantic dash, I would advise you not to spend it, but to instead keep it as a good luck charm.