Storytime: The Shamrock Shake Debacle of '92

I happen to simultaneously love and loathe the month of March for two equally important but unrelated reasons.
1. It's Spring Break season.
2. It's Shamrock Shake season.

Here's the thing, I don't hate Shamrock Shakes. Quite conversely, I love them. Mint Chocolate Chip is my favorite ice cream, and Shamrock Shake is just the MCC minus the CC. Not to mention I'm a pasty, redheaded Mick and I drink a lot of beer in general, so obviously I love all things St. Patrick's Day. What I don't love is the fallout of an incident involving a Shamrock Shake that happened in 1992 that I have yet to stop hearing about every time March rolls around and McDonald's starts advertising their return. So that you may all join in the fun every March and make fun of me each time mint milkshakes are mentioned, I've decided to share the story with all of you.

In the summer of 1991, my family became a minivan family, a transition I still don't understand because I had just turned 7 years old, the younger of two children, and it seemed that the McNallys were pretty decidedly forever going to be a family of four, a fact I am still very much content with as I believe my Princess schtick would not have worked as remarkably well were I a middle child.

Despite our small family size, we not only went for the minivan, we went for the minivan that was all the rage in the early '90s: GM's ill-advised Pontiac Trans Sport, or similarly the Chevy Lumina APV or Oldsmobile Silhouette. You know, the one that looked like a Dustbuster handheld vaccuum cleaner.

I'm not really sure why people in the early 1990s had such little good sense that something like this seemed like such a viable and attractive option for a vehicle, but these things were wildly popular considering how unconventional they were. They even kept the same body style from 1990-1994. Ours was a rich metallic royal blue with silver trim and a lovely heather gray interior.

It wasn't all that bad of a vehicle for us. I always rocked the third row, mainly because it afforded me a position where it was easy to hit my brother but much harder for him to hit me back while remaining safely belted in. It took us on a memorable family trip to Washington D.C., and it was once an accessory to a crime when I stole it my junior year of high school and drove two whole miles to school unaccompanied with only a learner's permit. My school had this fantastic policy about not letting students attend sports practice or games in the case of unexcused tardiness or absences, and hell if I was going to let something as trivial as traffic laws stand between me and cheerleading at the next basketball game.

Anyway, long before I took it on any crime sprees, we weren't allowed to eat in the van. Too young. We'd probably get french fry grease all over the seats. Parents wanted to retain the new car smell as it was 7 months old and still in its infancy. Finally, in March of 1992, my mother had a moment of weakness and let us eat in the van. Perhaps she thought that at (almost) 12 and (almost) 8, my brother and I were responsible enough to eat in there, especially since there was only a short distance between McDonald's and my grandparents' house, our destination that evening, and maybe she figured that nothing could possibly happen in such a short time.

I don't really remember if they gave out those little cardboard cup trays at McDonald's in 1992, but I'm not sure it would have helped. I don't remember what else I ordered, probably McNuggets or something, but I will always remember that I fatefully requested a Shamrock Shake that evening, and placed it on the floor of the middle row despite the fact that all I had to do was flip down any one of the independently-moving bucket seats with which Pontiac Trans Sports came equipped, because they all had built-in cup holders on the back. I can't really attest to the thought process of 7 and 3/4 year-old me, but I imagine that, like most other events over the course of my life, it can be filed under "things that seemed like a good idea at the time".

My mom isn't exactly known for her tremendous ability to slow a car down gradually and several hundred yards before a turn, as you are apparently supposed to do. My grandparents lived on the corner of West Genesee and Van Patten Streets in the West End of Auburn, and there was a parking lot behind a bar and restaurant right after you turned onto Van Patten, just before it became more residential, starting with my grandparents' house. My mom took a hard left onto Van Patten, and upon noticing that my grandfather's prized Cadillac DeVille was parked in the driveway as it usually was, still sparkling from its earlier daily wash, she continued what I'm pretty sure was a two-wheeled turn into the small parking area.

It was a hard left immediately followed by a hard left. Essentially, my mom took the Trans Port around that corner and flipped it about 160 degrees at what felt like Mach 3. I recall that I had a difficult time staying completely upright for that stunt, so suffice it to say that the Shamrock Shake had considerably more trouble staying on its feet. I have never seen ice cream or really anything that thick launch out of a cup and coat such a large surface area so quickly.

After a very brief initial silent shock and a few "OH. MY. GOD."s and various other "Look what you did, you little jerk!"-type comments from my smartass brother later, somehow the Shamrock Shake got cleaned up. I don't remember the aftermath really; who cleaned up, or if I cried, I can't be sure. But I will forever remember the vision of that poor minivan doused in mint-scented semi-liquid.

The Trans Sport smelled like mint for months afterward, which in retrospect was probably a good thing, because it's possible that the mint smell covered up any hint of spoiled milk stench. And my family still has very much has that minivan despite that fact that we nearly never drive it, but if you look closely at the heather gray carpeting in the middle section, you can still see some evidence of the Shamrock shower.

18 years and more than two-thirds of my life later, this has become something of family legend, and the story seems to get crazier every time its told. The funny thing is, if I had spilled a Coke or something equally ubiquitous, I probably wouldn't get teased every time I drank Coke for the rest of eternity. But since I ordered something much more unique and seasonal, I'm still getting the smart remarks every March since 1992, every time someone in my family sees anything about Shamrock Shakes or hears that I'm having one. Last year I sent my brother a picture text of the one I was about to enjoy and he texted back: "Go find a minivan to dump it all over!". Sigh. Maybe once I hit the twenty year mark in two years we'll be able to let it go. But I won't hold my breath.

Hope everyone has a happy St. Patrick's Day. Try not to spill anything.