Conversations in the Original Mini-Van or

Why falafel makes me gag

I remember roasting like a pink pig in the back of the family Volkswagon Van.  I waited in the parking lot of the grocery store while my mom took the other three demonic sibs in with her.  It wasn't because I was bad.  It wasn't because I was missing any appendages.  It wasn't because my Dorothy Hamill mushroon bob frightened the blue hairs.  It was because with four kids under 10, my mom had to make choices.  More often than not, her choice was to leave her eldest in the van saying, "It's too damn hot out here and there aren't any good spots left.  Just sit here by the window and twitch a little and kind of roll your eyes back like that time you choked on your falafel burger at The Malt Shop.  A little drool too, that's good.  Not too much or they'll think your having some kind of seizure and I am not in the mood to talk to social services again today! If anybody asks where our handicap sticker is just tell them you ate it."