Some days our life is all hospital bracelets and scan results. And some days, the big headline is: “Married Couple Bravely Survives Rush Hour Traffic and a Craft Store.” This was one of those days.
The mission sounded simple enough. Kaiser Downey was out of Traci’s roxicodone, so we got redirected to Long Beach. I loaded her into the van, queued up the GPS, and pretended like a traffic hour drive down the 605 wasn’t basically volunteering as tribute. The freeway, of course, was a parking lot with better branding.
We inched along in that special kind of Southern California traffic where nothing is moving but everyone believes their lane is the problem. I made a throwaway joke about how if you added up all the hours we’ve spent sitting on the 91, we probably could’ve driven to Texas and back. No one on the freeway laughed, which felt rude.
Then we crossed South Street.
If you grew up anywhere near here, you know exactly what my brain did next. The second I saw the sign, the jingle just kicked in automatically like a reflex:
“Take the 605 to South Street… Cerritos… Auto… Square…”
I sang it under my breath, full committed, like a one‑man commercial break. Between the road noise and the radio, I’m pretty sure Traci didn’t hear a single note. I, on the other hand, cracked myself up. Nothing says “middle‑aged dad” like being your own audience for a car‑dealership jingle from 1997.
Kaiser Long Beach, meds secured, check. Next up was In‑N‑Out, because if I’m going to battle rush hour traffic for my wife, I’m at least getting Animal fries out of the deal. Traci kept me company while I inhaled my double double burger and fries like I was being timed, and we just sat there for a minute in that quiet, ordinary way that feels ridiculously rare now.
Then Michael’s. She hunted down exactly two things: a package of cards and envelopes, and a gold fabric roll for her Cricut. Zero browsing chaos, just precise, intentional crafting. To anyone else, it was $15 of paper and fabric. To her, it was a little “I still make things” flag planted in the middle of a medical battlefield. I watched her choose them and thought, “Yep. Worth every freeway mile.”
On the way home, traffic was still a slow and go, the sun was doing that low‑in‑your-eyes thing, and Traci and I made a couple of traffic jokes. I glanced up, saw the South Street sign in my rearview, and the jingle popped back into my head.
That’s when the actual dad‑joke punch line landed.
I looked at her, then at the backup of brake lights stretching forever, and said quietly to myself, “You know, with the amount of time we spend on these roads, they really should rename it:
Cerritos… Auto… *Care*.”
Nobody laughed.
Except me.
Which, if we’re being honest, is how at least half of my best material works these days.
Paul Ellis 
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