The Sienna Era

I have waited the customary two days since posting the goodbye to the Highlander before writing about the new van. Mad respect, yo.

5Our new Sienna looks just like the one above, in “super white” with  blackout tint on the back five windows. I am using this file photo because our driveway isn’t big enough for us to find a solid angle from which to take a selfie – let alone a standard photo – of our actual van.

1We just went through the process of making the van our own by affixing an Oshawott sticker on the rear windshield. We originally named the Highlander “Connor” but then we put an R2-D2 sticker on it. Whenever we got into a parking lot, one of us would say “Where’s R2?” In this way, the Highlander eventually became known as R2. I suppose the same thing will happen with this van. We’ll end up looking for Oshawott in Costco and Target and Ala Moana parking lots. We haven’t come up with any names for the Sienna. We haven’t even tried. It might be name-picking fatigue. The thing that sticks in my mind most isn’t a name, it’s the Billy Joel song “Vienna”. I suppose that’s perfect because the song is  – at least tangentially – about growing up and the van is an unquestioned American symbol of the death of one’s youth.

While I wasn’t able to get a full shot of the van, I was able to snap these bad boys of this bad, bad girl going full import model:

2Summer Babe. Note the carefree, inviting smile; the casual yet dressy sandals; the slightest sliver of midriff that belies the fact that she’s carried twins to term but also harks back to a time when she would wear these tiny tank tops and spaghetti straps  that were like daaaamn!; the effortless way she strikes a pose which says “I am 5-star resort relaxed, but in a mostly self-deprecating sort of way that is kind of awkward yet endearing and disarming and thus makes me the summertime queen of this here block – especially in the ‘males, ages 18-45’ demographic”.

3Sultry Soccer Mom. But now the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it transition from girl next door into a bunch of things I can’t mention in print without getting in trouble. Notice the fingertips caress the hood; the dark lines of her denim legs juxtaposed against the super white; the taut muscles of the arms, capable of ballet, modern dance, but probably “the sprinkler”; the scowl and the slightly narrowed eyelids which smolder with telepathic death rays that say ‘You forgot to take the trash out again, you dummy, but you washed the dishes and even the twins’ bottles and since I find that super-attractive, I am going to treat you very nicely tonight when we get into bed – but eww, no,  not like that – I don’t want you to get any ideas, I meant more like a 3-minute massage with my left hand while I scroll through my phone with the other, better, more coordinated hand’.”

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