Columnist Susan Snyder: No kidding around in this rig

Friday, July 30, 2004 | 8:35 a.m.

The first time we drove the new minivan to the grocery store, I felt kind of conspicuous.

Kids did not pile out of ours -- nor will they ever.

Since The Other brought it home five months ago, the minivan has hauled bicycles, camping gear, plants and potting soil.

We parked it at Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area late one night to watch a movie on the DVD player and giggle like a couple of teenagers.

But this vehicle will never haul a stroller, a Cub Scout pack, Little League equipment or anything else associated with a population that drinks juice from a box.

Move over soccer moms. Minivans aren't just for kids anymore -- at least, not the chronological kind.

Auto industry reports show that minivan sales overall have fallen in the past few years, and most market watchers suspect it's because of the stigma. Maybe they're trying to sell the wrong image to the wrong crowd.

No 30-something tough-guy feels cool driving a vehicle that resembles a suppository on wheels, even if it's painted red.

Minivans represent being settled, responsible, tired. People generally break down and buy one when they are absolutely overrun with children and grocery bags.

I figure when most of one's universe revolves around Hello Kitty backpacks and "Good Night Moon," one longs to drive to work in something outdoorsy and rugged looking, even if the closest to nature one gets is a farmer's market in downtown Henderson.

Auto industry figures show minivans still account for about 1 million vehicle sales annually. And sales increased for eight of the 21 models on the market last year -- some by as much as 30 percent, Automotive News Data Center figures show.

I remember when the gleam first appeared in The Other's eye. He wanted to unload the station wagon he'd been driving for a few years and buy something that would suitably haul us and our toys. An SUV? Nah. Been there, done that. Twice. Too much gas and too little space inside.

But as we were loading our bikes after a ride with friends one morning last fall, one of the guys poked the button on his keychain and the side door of his new minivan quietly slid open.

It was like a space ship.

"That's cooooool," I cooed.

And that's when I noticed that at least three of the active retired, or almost-retired, couples we hang out with own minivans. They carry dogs, outdoor gear and grownups.

Not one has crayon marks on the seat or grape juice stains on the carpet.

Our supposed symbol of a boring life has accrued more than 11,000 miles since it joined our household in February.

It has been to both of the Grand Canyon's rims, Bryce and Zion national parks and to a remote lake in God-Knows-Where Utah that I could not find again if you implanted a Global Positioning System device in my brain.

Like the minivans of our peers, it will tote Gatorade and gear for events during the Nevada Senior Games.

Call us settled. Call us frumpy. Call us whatever you want.

But you'll have find a sitter for the kids and catch us first.