Monday evening Tony and I were sitting outside chatting about our days when I enthusiastically shared with him the description of a handicap van I saw in a hospital parking lot. We’re looking to upgrade to an even larger handicap van/truck/bus/semi-truck in order to transport our whole family once Teddy gets his wheelchair in the next year. The van I saw looked no bigger than our current 15 passenger, but somehow seemed to have enough interior room to fit more than one wheelchair plus bench seating. I pressed my face against the tinted windows of the van and admired the lack of crumbs. I mentioned to Tony that the company decal on the back said ‘Turtle Top”. I was going on and on about the swank interior of the Turtle Top when Tony interrupted me with a laugh and asked “What’s it called again?” “TURTLE TOP!” I said, exasperated that he seemed oblivious to the elegance of the Kardashian of handicap transportation. “Oh, I thought you said plop, turtle plop. Heh, heh. Hey, check me out in my new Turtle Plop. Let’s all go for a ride in the Plopper!”
Today I get an email entitled simply ‘the plopper’ which links to the manufacturer’s site complete with specs and floor plans. And while I’m still in love with the vehicle (it really would be great for our family in the long run) I know that purchasing one would result in years of jokes about ‘the family plopper.’ Tony’s already committed to getting the name painted on the side. Heck, even if we don’t buy this brand, I know the likelihood of any future vehicle being christened ‘The Plopper’ is almost a sure thing. Hug your swaggerwagons tight tonight ladies; you never know when something more sinister might come along.
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