My car is less-than-clean, I admit. It’s almost always less-than-clean. OK, some days it’s downright filthy. OK, OK, most days it’s downright filthy. But I don't see the big deal... cleaning it just isn't that important to me. On a daily basis I cart around a 9-year-old (who thinks of the car as her personal crap depository… it’s how she keeps her room tidy), a very (very) hairy dog (who is often wet and muddy), and myself (who needs a bunch of books and magazines and, apparently, at least one weeks’ worth of recycling on hand at any given time). I take it camping in the woods and on long road trips and I have never prohibited eating or drinking in it. In fact, Rob once told me that if he found another french fry in my car, he’d divorce me. Guess I should have passed on that last trip to McDonalds, huh?
Although I don’t care much about my car being dirty, it seems to bother other people besides Rob (that it bothers him is just a little treat for me). Last year, when my friend Todd visited from London, the first thing he said when he got into the car was, “It smells like dog in here.” Yeah. Bite me. Even Hugh, who never criticizes me (to my face) commented several times about how I might want to clean out my car. And you, lovely Hugh, can bite me, too.
Recently, my dirty car actually served me well. I got pulled over for speeding and when the cop asked me if I knew why he’d stopped me, I said, “My car’s too dirty?” He cracked up. I didn’t get a ticket that day. You don't have to bite me, Mr. Cute Policeman (unless you want to, of course).
So today I get to the park for my work out. I’m still sitting in the car, waiting for the song on the radio to finish when this little kid gets out of the car next to me and peers in the window. Then he yells, “Wow, Mama! This lady’s car is a MESS!”
Hey kid... bite me! And after you do, I’m going to clean out my car. Geez-us.