As with most things in life, purchasing my soon-to-be-refurbished mini camper was the easy part. Getting my canned ham from Michigan to Nashville, however, is providing a larger challenge.
Initially I was going to pick her up myself. Road trip! I got the 2004 Honda Pilot serviced (Pollyanna, for those of you who wonder) and checked her towing capabilities. Even in her dotage, Pollyanna could pull Daisy. After watching the news, I realized if I rear-ended a car in front of me, or front-ended a gaggle of geese, murder of crows, or herd of deer, I would explode on impact with my nuclear airbag, but by dang, I could pull a camper. (Note to self: check on this recall thing.)
I began plotting my trip, choreographing the elements better than Paula Abdul did for Michael Jackson in the 80s. First, a swing dance. Mi familia would swing by West Virginia for the annual pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving dinner with kith and kin. College Boy would join us from his perch in Cincinnati and afterward, I would return to the Buckeye State with him in Pollyanna whilst Spousal Unit and Girl Child would return to Nashville in Sven, (College Boy’s beloved Volvo). Easy enough.
Then, a little hip-hop number. I would hop up to Michigan to retrieve Daisy whilst College Boy did his College Thing. I would return to Cincinnati where my son and I would reconnect and bring Daisy home to Nashville in time for Thanksgiving. I would write about my adventures, the adorable people I would meet along the way and the joy I would receive from bringing Daisy home. This is the same world in which I have resided where I have met and married John Kennedy, Jr., been a guest author on Oprah, cheered with the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and been invited to Nashville’s Swan Ball. It’s a nice place to visit, but there’s no way in hell I can live there.
During this time, this choreographing of steps to get my camper home, I also took the advice of a friend and signed up on uShip for bids on shipping Daisy from Point A to Point B. The first bid was more than nine hundred bucks. Reality sucks. I went back to dancing in the fantasy world of a road trip. I would wave and honk at truckers and they would wave and honk at me. Families in station wagons, with luggage piled on top and springer spaniels panting in the “way back,” would point and smile at the nice lady with the camper. My imaginary trip looked like Grandma Moses and Norman Rockwell sat on one another’s laps and took turns painting. Buying a 1959 camper time traveled me into believing that I would wear a size six A-line dress, my husband would smoke a pipe and my children were named Dick and Jane.
Step-two-three, two-two-three, I waltzed through the plans of my trip. This was going to be fun. When the online bids from uShip kept coming, I laughed at them. I got this, boys. I am woman; hear me roar. The bidders had questions. Was Daisy licensed and insured? What size ball did she use? Did her lights work?
Her what? Daisy has balls? Sheesh. I thought I was tough.
I asked the former owner about the license. He would send me the title; therefore, I could get the license. That was easy. Needed to call my insurance agency and take care of that. No, the sixteen-year-old doesn’t have her license yet and yes, the nineteen-year-old is still in college. Yes, we could eliminate the national debt with what we pay in insurance. I still haven’t had the nerve to ask the former owner about Daisy’s balls. I wonder if she needs to be named David instead.
My beautifully choreographed trip starts feeling like the end of a dance marathon. I’m dragging. I realize it could be very possible I would be dragging a camper for a ten-hour drive, leaving bits and pieces of Daisy along the way. My imaginary trip changes. Passersby in Toyota mini vans would point and shake their heads in dismay. Their dogs would growl and show their fangs. I would pull up in our driveway, sparks flying from Daisy’s frame that drags on the asphalt. She would list to one side, her back end missing from the semi tractor-trailer that rear-ended her because she had no taillights. Her balls, wherever and whatever they are would be gone. My insurance agent would be standing to the side, arms crossed, shaking her Clairol-dyed blonde head, noting all of the reasons she was going to cancel our policy.
Sun-Pro Logistics is delivering Daisy this weekend.