Driving Ms. Daisy Godzilla, the Killer Blue Kitten

We drive a Suburban.

No big deal, I grew up driving a Suburban…sometimes with a boat attached. For those not familiar with the dynamics required to haul a 17 foot sailboat on a trailer plus a six foot metal mast extending beyond the hull, it is like your vehicle is an 18 wheeler, with only six wheels. You can still take out a house if you turn wrong, you just have less grip on the road.

There have been stories about other Suburbans where the trailer spontaneously disengaged from the Suburban and then, due to forces heretofore unknown, passed said hauling car on the freeway, even making a turn signal before switching lanes.
“Look Dad, there goes someone’s Boat…”
“Look at that…HEY! THAT’S OUR BOAT!”

Even without a boat, the only word for a Suburban is XXXL.

If it was a sandwich, it would be a Wendy’s Baconator. Why? Because four patties of beef, six slices of bacon and three of cheese is probably sufficient caloric intake for seventeen days. Filling up the tank of this big blue monstrosity on a regular basis requires that we manage our investments wisely. Like eating a baconator You don’t want to do it very often… if ever.

The point of all this is that recently, I have had difficulty parking this big blue Beast. It all started when my five year old daughter’s friend decided our car was called Blue Kitten. She had already named her parent’s red suburban Kitten, so it seemed only natural to christen ours a similar moniker.

My sons were outraged and sought to soothe the should be mucking about in the swamps, hauling boats, SUV’s ego by coming up with alternative names, like Bulldog, Mastodon, and of course Godzilla. Each name increased in it's testosterone level and descriptive violent adjectives.

The car had an identity crisis.

Suddenly, it was nearly impossible to park this machine. Every spot was too narrow, too difficult to steer into, impossible to exit. I took to parking at the far end of the parking lot, but even there, I struggled to get the car within the two yellow lines. I could have sworn it was gaining weight. Maybe it was stress guzzling the ethanol I’d been putting in when I wasn’t looking.

When the girls would pile in for gymnastics or basketball, suddenly the car became spry and nimble, deftly maneuvering around any number of tiny double parked vehicles to secure a sweet parking place. My girls had taken to patting the car, “Good Kitty Blue.”

“Blue Kitten!” “BULLDOG!”
“I like mine version better! The Blue Death Star!”
“MOMMMMM!”

Being called to issue a ruling on what the Suburban shall hence forth be named was an issue fraught with peril. The kids waited as I considered whether I’d ever get my eight year old son in the vehicle again willingly if I allowed the girly nick name to stand. At the same time, dismissing her friend’s gesture would crush my five year old’s spirit.

Reaching back into biblical lore, I consulted Solomon.

We started talking about all the names in our family. How Dad gets called “Mr.” at the office and I don’t get called Mom by my friends. They knew I was preparing to give a ruling.

The Suburban, being a big car, could handle a bigger name. I presented my Hybrid solution, Godzilla Kitten.

Both sides were disgusted.

Me: “Fine! Get in the Car!” Case dismissed.