No One Looks Cool in a Minivan

A few days ago I spied a stylishly dressed woman crossing a parking lot. I sighed and felt mild nostalgia for the days when I wore clothes that didn't easily double as sleepwear. Then she got into the driver's seat of a minivan, and her aura of coolness dissipated like that. Pfffft! There is nothing hep about being a member of the minivan driver corps.

Which probably makes you question my hesitancy about purchasing such a vehicle--I mean, I am the president of Dorks-R-Us. And I already drive an equally goofy-looking wagon.

The wagon is rationalizable, though. I tell myself that some cool people drive wagons. Artists who need to haul around their wares, parents with boutique farms who need to get the kids to school and the produce to the farmer's market. None of these people drive minivans.

The minivan is the point of no return. The one-way ticket to both practicality and dorkitude. Seymour says that since it's the car we need, I just have to slap a KQED sticker on it and suck it up. And no, I can't paint it fluorescent orange. He did suggest that, if I was looking for some way to make the minivan stand out, he could install a fake gun rack in the back.

Anyhow. Iz was up all night barfing--she's got whatever Leelo and Eliz had. Poor girl. I will be nursemaiding today. Thank heavens Therapist L is scheduled for a brief session this afternoon--I might be able to eke out a nap.

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