Every workday, I commute with Tank and Hammy, because we work 20 miles away and also because gas costs 8 hundred million dollars a gallon all of a sudden. I picked a fine time to give up working from home. I picked a fine time to give up sniffing glue.
We take turns every week, so for one whole week Tank will drive, or Hammy, or me. You get the drift. At least I hope you do. It is not so complex, there, Forrest. With my fine math skills, I have figured out that by only driving to work every third week, I have saved approximately 100 billion dollars a year in gas costs.
Albert Einstein called. Wants his hairstyle and his math skills back.
So, Tank is a boy and Hammy and I are girls. You can imagine, then, how the commute in the car goes.
Me: So, then, blahblahblah HAHAHAHAH!blahblahblah me me me me and then I me me blah blah--
Hammy: HAHAH! Me too! Blah blah story about me that is just like yours! Blah blah!
Me: HAHAHAHAH! OMG! Yeah! And me me me me! blah blah!
Tank: Well, once, I--
Hammy: Memememememememememe story about me! blah blah!
Me: Me,me,me,me story about me too!
Tank (trying again): Yeah, heh, well, once --
Me: OH! And me me me me! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Hammy: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Tank: Heh.
The three of us have been commuting together for three months. Forty-five minutes in the morning, 45 minutes in the evening, five days a week, for 12 weeks. So far I know that (a) Tank is married (b) Tank grew up in North Carolina (c) Tank has a son and a dog and (d) Tank likes to run for enjoyment. Oh, and that Tank is going to take over my freelance editing work for me.
So far, everyone in the car knows about my blog, my spouse, my brain tumor, my lack of brain tumor, my old boyfriend who still has my beer in his refrigerator, my old boyfriend who got married 10 seconds after we broke up, my ex-best friend, my current friends, my friends who are gettin' on my last nerve, my favorite color, my thoughts about the fact that I may be edging toward a new favorite color, my dog, my mother, my father, my father's tripod case that he used to tell me his foster daughter lived in, my old job in LA, my old job in Seattle, my old boyfriend in my hometown, my hair, my Botox, my Gor-Tex implant in my upper lip, my tendency to only purchase one lipstick at a time, my flossing addiction, my dislike of pretzels, the kinds of men I think are cute, my caffeine addiction, my new migraine meds, how I like my new job, what it was like to live in LA, celebrities I have seen, Marvin's encounter with Michael Jackson, my allergies, how I dislike people who are similar to me, what kind of animal I'd be, what kind of food I would live on if I could only live on two kinds (strawberries and tomato-and-onion pizza), my stepsister and how she married Marvin's best friend, how Marvin won't let me sing in the house, my love for Howard Stern and my love of poop jokes.
I won't even tell you everything I have learned about Hammy, mostly because she didn't give me permission to tell you. But it's way more than the bare skeleton of Tank knowledge above, I can tell you that.
So, last week Hammy was gone on a business trip, leaving Tank and me to commute alone together. I must have been eatin' a Charleston Chew or something, because somehow Tank got himself a word in sideways. He mentioned that his birthday was coming up this month.
"Oh, a November baby," I said. "Were you mad to have your birthday when it was cold and gray out?" It always seemed like having your birthday in November would be sort of depressing.
"Well," said Tank, who was probably thrilled that he had gotten out four actual words in a row on the commute, "I wasn't supposed to be born in November. My due date was February 14."
Now, what now?
Turns out Tank? Was THREE MONTHS premature. He was three months premature in the 1960s. I mean, three months premature now would be an event, but 40 years ago?
When Tank was born, he weighed a pound and 15 ounces. A tank he was not. His nurse was able to slide her wedding ring clear up his arm, all the way to his shoulder. They told his parents he'd never make it. They got their pastor right over to the hospital, and the night-duty nurse, the one with the ring, served as his godmother when they baptized him.
That nurse sent Tank a birthday card every year after until her death last year. And Tank was famous in his hometown. Everything he did made his local paper; he was always the miracle angel baby. When he started kindergarten, there was a whole story: "Miracle Angel Baby Starts Kindergarten."
Can I just tell you how tickled to death I am to be commuting to work with the miracle angel baby? First of all, I kind of feel like nothing bad is gonna happen to us. Plus, I just kind of feel cool by association, with my decidedly regular not-at-all miraculous self. I mean, it really is a wonder that he survived, isn't it? And by the way, he did, you know, fill out since then. I might have mentioned it had one of my carpoolers weighed in at a pound 15.
I just can't believe he had to sit there and listen about my one-lipstick rule when he had THIS gem under his belt! His miraculous angel belt! I mean, I would have LEAD with this one. Hi, I'm Tank, the miracle angel baby. It'd be on my business card. It'd be on my tattoo. I'd be trying to make money from it. Come see the miracle angel baby. Pay five extra dollars to touch the MAB!
Perhaps this is why Tank is infinitely more likable than I am.
