Zen and the Art of Jeep

So, when going to the transfer station, there is an expression of the ultimate environmental goodness - reuse.

There's a covered area where folks put things they don't want but feel that other folks might want. I've seen a motor cycle, bicycles, kids toys, chairs, and other nice things that people are just done with. On Saturday, folks lurk around the area waiting for something that they might need. Like a garage sale without the garage. Or the sale. I'm waiting for the Corvette to show up there.

I'm not sure of the etiquette of what person waiting gets what thing, but I'm sure that it's polite because everyone's armed.

Mainly, I just take trash there.

I'm tempted to take The Boy's electric Jeep there.

The Mrs. saved every single Pampers Points label from when The Boy was using such things, and after 19,721 used diapers, we'd saved enough points to win the Jeep.

Strangely, the number of points required was exactly the number that we'd accumulated until the boy was getting potty trained. I'm thinking someone got fired for that promotion, since when we ordered said Jeep, we were informed that it was a six month backlog. I'm guessing that they set then number of Pampers Points too low, and that some Pampers Executive found his or her career in the proverbial crapper for the sudden expenditure of a million parents all getting an electric ride-on Jeep all at once. I can see the conversation:
"Really, that's enough points, how often do parents change diapers, like, once a day? No one will ever save enough points to get the Jeep."

Every parent we ran into of a similar aged child has the Jeep.

"They change diapers HOW OFTEN??? I thought when we put on our label 7-10 pounds that was how much they held. You mean to tell me that's the size of the kid? They're that small?"

The Jeep, though, is one wheel drive. And the wheel is made of plastic. And, if it's on a surface that has even the slightest irregularity or has a coefficient of friction less than tape-on-tape, it just sits there and the one wheel drive spins. And spins. The entire effect of this is just to piss The Boy off. Most of the time he's pushing the Jeep around to find that magic spot so he can get in and go 1.74 feet before the wheel ceases to find traction.

If you could bottle anger and use it as an energy source, I would suggest giving these Jeeps to children 'round the world. Petroleum consumption would drop overnight. 'Cause The Boy gets really, really, really mad. He doesn't know any cuss words, but if he did, he'd be using them to describe his love-hate relationship with the Jeep.

You see, despite it's utter uselessness, The Boy is drawn to the Jeep like a moth to a flame, like Ahab to big whales, like Kirstie Alley to a doughnut - he cannot stop going back to it, and wishing that somehow, some way, today it will work, and he'll proudly drive down the road to our house, wind blowing in his close-cropped hair, he being the envy of every preschooler.

But, he gets about 1.74 feet down the road, and the bubble again bursts. Maybe, just maybe, the Jeep is a better learning toy than I thought . . .