There's a woman on my van who rides about twice a month. She assumed all of Van Mother's administrative duties when she left.
She only shows up to collect everyone's monthly van payment and to tell anecdotes about her kids - this morning's punchline was when she told her son to behave himself at a neighbor's house and he said, "But Mommy, I just don't know if I can do that." - cue the polite laughter for her charming imp.
She's a pretty lady, with full hips and thick blonde hair. When she does ride the van, Blondielocks is perpetually late. This morning was no exception. As we pulled out of our parking space her G-Dub '04 stickered SUV roared into the parking lot.
Were it left to me, I would have pretended not to notice her and hoped that getting left might serve as an inducement to be timely in the future. But no. Someone said, "Oh, there's Blondielocks!" and we had to stop.
She was in a mood to chat and looked at me over her shoulder a few times trying to catch my eye. So I promptly put in my headphones, closed my eyes, and leaned my head against the window in my usual Monday morning grump pose.
We occasionally talk on the way home in the afternoons, but me not having any offspring to tell tales about really handicaps me when talking with suburban women.
She thought to include me in her party planning for Van Mother's departure. She asked me what I thought we should do for her last day and I suggested a card or some breakfast goodies but said that I was unsure of vanpool protocol. This made her laugh and she said it would be funny if she wrote a book about all the things that happen on vanpools, the people who ride and what they do and say.
What I thought, but couldn't say to her as I considered this then-fledgling blog was, "Blondie, you don't know the half of it."