Post-holiday, we’re scouring over kitchen cupboards in hopes of finding something to eat, both of us still caught up in the dreamy world of vacation where food is magically brought to us. Something is wrong… it’s well after noon and still no food! The phone rings.

It’s Da and he asks if we want to go to Costco one last time.

Huh?

The Bonneville is on its last legs. He doesn’t think he will renew the plates. This will be our last bulk shopping tirp.

That Bonneville. That 18 year old monster of a car that seats 5 with real leather interior. Da’s most luxurious car purchase (most luxurious if you don’t count the Starsky and Hutch style two tone, two door silver Ford LTD back in the late 70s) has ever so slowly become a nuisance instead of a convenience.

The Bonnie is a massive car. It runs 199.5 inches (16.5 feet – the 70s station wagon version got up to 19ft!) from nose to spoiler, 75 inches wide, where the average car length today runs about 10-13 feet. You could fit a couple of bodies back there and still have room for skis (the centre divider armrest in the back seat opened into the trunk so you could do just that). Da’s car is a deep green with fog lamps (the switch for these located cockpit style, just over your head on the roof), dual seat controls in the hump (see video), steering wheel audio controls (cassette tape deck!) and a curious HUD with speedometer/compass.

Yes. A Heads Up Display right on the windscreen that constantly reminds you how much you’re speeding. The single most coolest car gimmick I have ever encountered since the talking door alarm.

Despite the ginormous size of the car and the oomph of the engine, I was never caught speeding in it. Lord knows I had it up around 140-150kph a few trips, but don’t tell Da.

When Da tells me that he’s setting the old girl out to pasture, I recall all the times I borrowed the car for so many trips/tours/hauls. Numerous house moves where I packed my meager stuff into the trunk/back seat – I estimate 9 apartment moves. Is that too much in 17 years? So many Ikea runs with flimsy pressboard furniture strung to the roof. So many campground set ups and tear downs in all sorts of weather. And subsequent car cleanings because of it. So many trips to Brockvegas and back.

I recall picking up SharkBoy with it in our budding relationship for a few dates, just after he gave up his monster Toyota SUV. I think the fact that we had access to a big car, post-SUV, helped him ease the pain of being without car. I also recall a few good night kisses.

In the last year the poor girl’s deterioration was fast and furious: the coolant levels sensor blew out just as SharkBoy and I started out on a trip to Montreal, even though we could see the jug under the hood was full. It stayed that way until Da had his mechanic tear out the sensor. The “area” on the steering column where the horn mysteriously hides suddenly died. My last trip in the old girl wasn’t anything eventful except noticing the exhaust is running a bit loud. The cost of repair and re-certification well exceeds the cost of convenience.

I would love to do a farewell video where shot for shot, we recreate the “out behind the barn” scene from Old Yeller.

Goodbye Bonneville. You’ve been a good friend.

SharkBoy is on his hands and knees cleaning out all the old VHS tapes from the floor of the office.

I’m doing two hockey bags of laundry across the street and at the same time, trying to set up my niece’s new blog/magazine database.

In 10 minutes I have to go back to the laudromat and pull the two bags from the dryer, come home and fold it.

in about 30 min I want to clean up the living room from the massive chip and movie feeding frenzy we had last night.

In 1.5 hours I need to go get ingredients for a 6 hour slow cooker chili recipe. In 2 hours I have to dump all these ingredients into the slow cooker.

When that’s in the crock pot, I need to set up my salads/lunches/veggie snacks for the week.

In 4 hours I want to play an hour of BioShock2.

In 5 hours we have to go over to Da’s to set up his new TV stand.

In 7 hours, Da is coming over for dinner.

“Sunday is the day of rest” my ass.

Seriously

I awake suddenly at 1am due to some unnamed, shrouded nightmare. As I lie there getting my heart rate back down I decide to “go to my happy place”. You know – thinking about the most relaxing thing I could conjure up at the time in hopes to get me back to sleep. Otherwise I would start thinking about work and oh god did I leave the stove on? Etc…

For some reason I thought of the opening scene from Gladiator (due to Spartacus on HBO Canada?) where Russel Crowe is walking through the wheat field and just touching everything (non-commercial reenactment below):

Anywhoo. I’m there in the dark, dreaming of golden fields of grain, the sun beaming down on me – not too hot, my hands touching lightly the plants as I wander through the grass, the smell of summer in my head –

The cat, from the foot of the bed, burps.

I didn’t get back to sleep until well after 3am.