The tax man cometh and of course with his arrival pocketbooks clinch tightly shut in anticipation of a possible donation to the IRS. Thus, business had slowed down considerably while clients sorted out their financial affairs and daydreamed of that elusive refund check. It was time to drum up some business and bombard the area with signs. As one of the newer groomers to the business I
was volunteered for the task.
Now cruising the area and tactfully placing signs, is not one of my favorite past times. Something about my less than stealthy frame dodging traffic just doesn’t thrill me, although I’m sure it provides quite a show for the morning commuters. However, I usually just suck it up, pack up my propaganda and thank heavens at least the job doesn’t require a humiliating costume. So I hop into my mom mobile, a Chrysler Pacifica, and start targeting well traveled intersections and entrances of
When the perfect target is spotted, I throw the car in park, power waddle (girls with long torsos and short legs can’t run) to my hatch, grab a sign and stab it into the ground. Once I’ve planted my
grooming sign I then return to the helm and seek another ideal location, simple enough. However, on this particular occasion I had hit the morning rush hour. The streets were clogged with commuters and the corners littered with children waiting for the school bus. Basically, I had a full house to witness my stealthy waddling.
I went through the well rehearsed motions and as I attempted to return to the helm, it all came to an abrupt halt. Apparently, the masterminds of Detroit decided that the vehicle door should automatically lock if one decided to hop out with the ignition running and shut them. For a moment panic and embarrassment set in, as the middle schoolers on the corner decided to tune into the show
unfolding. Realizing the probability of the door magically unlocking was dim, I quickly tried my hatch.
Halleju! Those Detroit demons didn’t include my hatch on their sadistic joke! As grateful as I was that a solution presented itself, I knew it wasn’t going to be a simple one. My third row seating was up, so
that meant I’d have to crawl up into the hatch and squeeze myself over the bench seat to reach a door lock. There was no use dwelling on the spectacle I was about to create, so I dove into the
trunk. The impish chuckles in the background egging me on, I started the tight fit over the rear bench. Instantly, I thought of Winnie the Pooh, and when he gets stuck in Rabbit’s front door. Silently, I vow that if I reach the other side, I’ll lay off the junk food for a bit.
With a barrage of unique maneuvers, I’m able to unlock the doors, try to regain what little composure I have left and return to the shop. As I stroll into the door, one of the owners smiles and informs me the signs have already done their job and a few new clients have called in. Then he gleefully adds that for not much work these signs really make an impact. I fight the urge to say, “NOT MUCH WORK?!” Something about having to be Nadia Comaneci for the last 30 minutes had tainted my rose colored glasses.