The end of the road

Osito the Blazer
January 2000 - October 2008

It was an unseasonably cold day in Georgia when my dad brought home my new Blazer. Thankfully, he had the foresight to keep me home that day, and to frustrate me further by making me remove and replace all four tires before I was allowed to go anywhere. (This would come in handy later, as it turned out I had a knack for running over sharp objects).

I learned a lot from my gas-guzzling SUV. For instance, I now know that eleven people is too many when you only have five seat belts. (Legally, I believe Sargent Carter referred to this as an "over-capacitated vehicle." As luck would have it, I got t-boned before I could transport my passengers too far.) Also, adding an insanely high number of bumper stickers, antenna balls and even a set of Yosemite Sam mud flaps to a vehicle does in fact make it easier to find in a crowded parking lot. It also makes you look like an idiot.

While watching Destinos, the cheesey Spanish soap opera they thought would help us learn the language, a friend in my Spanish class explained the need to name your transportation. So the big white blazer came to be known as Osito, the name given to the tiny black dog belonging to one of the characters in the show. I appreciate irony.

I managed to get Osito paid off before I graduated from college, and Justin and I have enjoyed our car payment-free marriage. I've long joked that I would drive this car until it died, and in the interest of not putting any more money into it than we had to, we'd even instituted a no-repair policy for minor fixes on the crotchety old blazer, like the thermostat knob that broke, or the visor mirror that was always falling down on my passengers. He was old, he was unreliable, and at his best he only got 17 miles to the gallon. But he got me from point A to point B, he kept me warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and I've got lots of fond memories of the time Osito and I spent together.

Sadly, Osito passed away on October 26. My dreams of driving him until he died came true, and I knew we'd reached the end of the road when Justin and his brother had to push him into a parking space at the repair shop after coasting in with a broken transmission.

My gas-guzzling days are over. Now, with the click of a button, my automatic sliding doors magically open, and I find myself situating my daughter into the backseat of the minivan we've dubbed Penelope. Slipping behind the wheel of my Honda Odyssey and into the heated driver's seat, I check to make sure Abby's sippy cup is close at hand in my center console, next to the diaper bag and the stuffed duck, and it hits me once again: I'm a mom. In a mom van. And I love it.

Farewell, Osito.

Welcome to the family, Penelope.