Her name is Orca

A bawdy old babe, she idles at big intersections. Moorpark and Hillcrest. Kanan and Roadside. Borchard and Newbury. Anywhere she can get a fix.

Cruising Gold's Gym, she flirts with sumo wrestlers and lumberjacks named Bubba. Or Fat Floyd.

Give her a smoothie laced with ethanol and she'll love you forever. But what she really needs is a Saudi prince who can keep the pipelines flowing.

You see, she can't help herself. She tips the scales at 3 tons. A white, brawny beast of chrome and steel, always in search of another scoop. Another sugar daddy to fill her tank. Another trip to the trough.

Plenty of her relatives roam the streets of the Conejo. Because in America, almost 100 million SUVs command the highways, according to the U.S. Bureau of Transit Statistics.

Don't get me wrong. I own one of these gorillas sporting a T.O. Lancer Softball Sticker programmed with an automatic sense of purpose that shoots her to California Pizza Kitchen and Costco on demand. Six thousand pounds of American ingenuity to pick up 2 cubic feet of avocado egg rolls, diapers and toothpaste. In metric, that's 1,360 kilograms per roll. Or per tube. I think.

Okay, she needs a wide berth, but hey, guys, she's got a backseat that Marilyn Monroe and all her paramours would swoon over.

Are you jealous? We can cruise the nurseries and resod Wildwood in one fell swoop. Yup. Orca and me. From Nordic to those Colorful Gardens, just load us up with lavender, lantana and an occasional Mexican lime and we'll lumber home, no problem. You can even throw in some PVC and a Christmas tree. And a few extra sprinkler heads. I got room, baby, I got room. Deck those halls.

And don't forget the mulch. I can't believe how convenient this car is.

And I can't believe how stupid I am.

Because years ago, I queued up in gas lines with other gnomes, misanthropes and trolls, vulnerable to the whims of OPEC. I swore I'd never drive anything bigger than a Hillman. What possessed me to buy Orca is beyond me. I guess my father was right when he said my feet are firmly planted in midair.

P.T. Barnum reputedly said, "There's a sucker born every minute." I fit the profile.

So Orca's going on a diet, and I'm going on a reality check.

In America, the "build it and they will come" philosophy prevails. It's "Field of Dreams" psychology, but Kevin Costner is no Freud. For Orca and her sisters, the axiom becomes "build it and they will buy it."

And I did. I developed SUV fever and five-cupholder compulsive disorder. I suffered from third-seat syndrome coupled with fat-tire fantasies. Oh, just give me a cargo compartment big enough to snag a new double stroller, load up at Bev Mo, tailgate at the Rose Bowl, throw in a couple of Labradoodles and I'll be happy forever.

Until I went broke trying to feed her. Talk about gas pains. No dinero left for dinner.

Then I had a "come to Buddha" conversation with myself.

Wonder how much I can fit into a Prius? A Yaris or a Versa? Impreza?

And why have they named these new mini-cars after gum diseases? Eeeuww. Yuck.

Well, bad names aside . . . what's the cupholder count? Got a third row back there? Any place for this couch?

I will no longer salivate over massive pieces of metal bent into beasts of burden, draped over chassis with mechanical devices that ping, poop and plunder. I will opt for cars named after infectious diseases, not Paul Bunyan.

Since America imports 70 percent of its oil and everyone is mad as heck, maybe things will change.

And maybe if I don't buy it, they won't build it. Maybe.

Reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.