Mustang, Dang. Minivan? What Minivan?

I drive a M.A.V. (Mommy Assault Vehicle–a.k.a., Minivan.) I have driven one since my second child was born.

Yesterday I drove a Mustang convertible.

I am now severely rethinking the whole multi-person-vehicle thing.

It started innocently enough: my son had a date to Homecoming and was trying to decide between being brave enough to risk dad's very nice foreign car (whose name we won't mention but it rhymes with Yowdi) along with his own meager bank account should anything happen to said foreign car–and being brave enough to risk his manhood by driving the M.A.V. instead.

The stress was killing him. The van unmans my boy. But the Yowdi costs $1,200 to repair no matter what happens, even if all it gets is a hang-hubcap. (See, that's a play on "hangnail." Get it? "Hangnail" –  "Hang-hubcap." Bwa HAH!) What to do?

Well, right before my wavering son was about to give in to the safety/dorkiness of the family car, in stepped my good friend and offered to let him drive her Mustang convertible to the dance. Out of the blue. Because she's like that.

My boy's eyebrows shot right off his forehead and before I could finish relaying her message he blurted "Yesplease!" Then he spent the rest of the afternoon "getting to know" the vehicle by driving it up and down our street every time he saw a neighbor going to get the mail, and lovingly vacuuming the non-existent lint from the seats, and figuring out how to put the top up (after I informed him that girls are wowed by convertibles until they are seated in the back–like my son's friend and his date would be–having the wind blast bugs and dust into their $100 dance-do, and send spikes of freezing air down their satin shrugs).

Needless to say, the boy had developed a perma-grin that would last until the next day, and the whole endeavor was a resounding success. The dates were suitably impressed, number one son's manhood remained intact, friends were envious, and the boys displayed chivalry by leaping to defend their dates' goose-bumped shoulders just in the nick of time, with a manly installing of the car's top. They couldn't have had a better evening if Chuck Norris had shown up and offered to teach them the tango.

Awesome for them.

But see, the problem here was this: I took the car to gas it up while my son was putting the finishing touches on his hair and tie.

I took. The car.

Not my car. The car.

Not the ginormoid I-bought-this-thing-because-I-can-get-the-kids-into-their-carseats-without-herniating-a disk-plus-look-at-all-the-bags-of-groceries-and-PTA-fliers-and-soccer-paraphernalia-and-neighborhood-kids-with-the-occasional-lost-bicycle-it-will-hold-minivan.

Nope. Not that.

I put my mom-self into a stinking Mustang Convertible, and was instantly transformed into a One-with-the-wind, Hair-blows-in-slow-motion, Beach-Boys-sing-in-the-background-every-time-I-start-driving, Teeth-gleam-and-strangely-attractive-laughter-spills-from-my-full-lips, Bond-girl-esque Chickie-Babe.

And I can't get enough of it.

I want this car.

I do not want my mini-van. That thing comes with popsicle stains on my T-shirt.

The cool car comes with Louboutins.

I want the cool car.

*sigh*

My son made me take the Mustang back today. Said it made me act weird. Whatever.

One thing for sure: I ain't returning the skinny-jeans and platform glitter-shoes I bought to go with it. And for Prom? Well, I just need to suddenly become best-friends with  a woman who owns a GTO.

Anyone?