So, About That Whole Having Kids Thing...

No, please sit down, nothing to announce here.

Except that my position on the theoretical little monsters might have softened somewhat as I came across something this weekend that might make them worthwhile.

Now I have made my fair share of fun at the idea of birth gifts, the expensive baubles some wives expect and some husbands supply to offset the physical discomfort of childbirth (btw, ladies, your asking for a diamond as reward for having a kid doesn't make having a kid seem worth it - after all isn't the kid supposed to be the reward?). I have scoffed and judged, but possibly merely on account of my relative ambivalence to jewelry. But I saw something I want. Something about as expensive as a diamond whatever, but eminently more practical vis a vis the whole if-I-have-kids-I-will-become-a-washed-up-sexless-stretchmarked-milkbag dilemma.

First some more preamble:

Preamble 1: I forgot about this item because it has been in the neighborhood of 20 years since I had seen the movie at which time

Preamble 2: I figured I would never ever leave New York and therefore would never be in the market for one.

I have informed devoted partner that the price for my safely releasing his spawn unto the world is this.

This is clearly the perfect Yelena car, Yelena being very very similar to Steve McQueen in badassitude. I saw this at an auto auction on TV and was struck dumb - or as devoted partner described it, I didn't say anything lewd about my intentions towards the car which is how he knew I was serious. This car has pretty much everything I could want: it's hatchback-ey (see also my devotion to certain Datsun Zs, VW GTIs, and the amazingly hideous awesomeness of the Porsche 944), it's speedy, and it's a simply gorgeous retro shade of metallic pine. I love this car so much that I wouldn't even consider painting it orange.

And, for the practical bit, no one in his right mind could accuse me of being a washed-up-sexless-milkmachine if I picked up my kids from school in this. I don't care if their slovenly friends can't fit in the car - I do not exist to be a dirty child delivery service. If each of two children has one friend over, we can all still fit in the car; I don't really want to be responsible for more children than that. Once upon a time the fantasy had me in a Karmann Ghia, but where that is a Barbiemobile, this is a car that hews much more closely to Pam Grier than Audrey Hepburn and, in the end, which do you think I want to be.

I can see that you miracle-of-life people out there might shudder at this craven consumerism, but it is just an opening salvo: who knows, I might be able to get the car without having the kids thereby sparing them the kind of mother who would use them as negotiating chips in the acquisition of a car.