A SECRET CLUB FOR WOMEN ONLY

When I was growing up, I used to love watching reruns of the "Little Rascals" on television. You know, Sparky, Alfalfa, Darla, Buckwheat and Little Mickey (who, of course, is now up for murder -- a story in itself).

One of my all-time favorite episodes was entitled "The He-Man Woman Haters' Club." The Rascals form a boys-only club and hilarity ensues.

While car-shopping after the birth of our first child, I came to the realization that a large segment of women in this country are card-carrying members of a similar club, a club based solely upon hatred for one of the most practical and beneficial inventions of the Twentieth Century. I give you: "The He-Woman Minivan Haters' Club."

I suspect that my wife is one of the founding members of this club. When we first began dating, she drove a silver pickup with black stripes and an engine that rumbled and rattled and constantly threatened to break free of its mount and race off with the other wild horses.

After meeting me for lunch, she would hop in the beast, wave sweetly, then lay down a patch of rubber exiting the parking lot that would make Jeff Gordon proud. That is, as long as she didn't have to turn left (again, a story in itself).

Once we married and had our first child, she grudgingly agreed to sell the pickup. I suggested we replace it with a minivan and suffered a severe case of tonguelash (whiplash's psychological cousin). What was I thinking, asking her to drive a "mom-mobile"?

After that, she drove only SUVs. And not just any SUVs, only those with the most horse power available. Her automotive concession to motherhood.

During this period of time, she would host other new mothers for "play dates" with the kids. Occasionally, I would walk in on these get-togethers and discover what appeared to be a full-fledged meeting of The He-Woman Minivan Haters' Club. I swear I once even caught them performing some sort of secret handshake. In most cases, I would immediately generate some lame excuse to exit the room, afraid one of them might suddenly announce the desire for a human sacrifice.

All this because of the minivan. I mean, have you seen the latest models? Sliding doors on both sides of the vehicle which move electronically. Seats that can be configured more ways than a Rubic's Cube. Television screens which drop down out of the ceiling like a gift from Heaven. If they ever produce a sound-proof glass wall that can be raised behind the front seats, they'd have the perfect car.

Recently, we were in the market for another new vehicle. Our family had grown with the birth of our second child and the lease was up on the SUV. It had been a while since the last meeting of the Club and my wife had truly taken to motherhood, so I thought I might broach the subject one more time.

"So, Dear, maybe the time is right to finally look at leasing a minivan?"

"Are you serious?"

A sign I should quit right then and there. But, like most men, it slipped past me like an anniversary date. Instead, I come back with: "Have you seen the latest models?"

"How many times -- and how many ways -- do I have to say it before it sinks into your warped little brain? I am not now, nor ever, going to drive a mom-mobile!"

With that, she walked into the nursery and closed the door on my face.

The next week we leased another SUV. Still, I hold out hope that one day she will finally relent, and we will own a top-of-the-line minivan with all the bells and whistles.

Just don't ask me to drive it.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2002