Welp, I’ve come to that time of the year where the collection of junk and litter has begun to take over the car. Where you kind of have to clear a path by your feet to have a level place to rest when you sit.
How did it come to this, you may inquire? It’s called: life on the go.
I took a gander today at the variety of garbage. I saw granola bar wrappers, a handful of empty peanut shells, VBS crafts, approximately nineteen napkins from the last time one of the girls spilled a drink, an old license plate (because we are way classy, yo, and like to hold onto remnants from the DMV, extra points if it’s from a DMV out of state), at least 3 pairs of shoes where vanity got the best of the girls, enough rubber bands and barrettes to decorate a dozen heads, bank deposit slips and other small papers, four scantily clad Barbies, dead fly carcasses – they chose their tomb well, lemme just say, somewhere around 30 fossilized french fries, no doubt what attracted the aforementioned flies, twenty or so empty straw wrappers, and a rainbow like assortment of crayons from chain restaurants. Fortunately the crayons have melted into the mats on the floorboard so they’ve become just another decorative feature of the car.
I’d like to say that Martha Stewart has had her influence in our automobiles. Or that Mr. Clean has found his way into our vehicle. But in our busy, hurry hurry hurry, we’ll be late if you don’t get a move on life, the cleaning of the car has been overlooked.
I do attempt to grab large armfuls of junk and dump it when we fill up for gas, but as of late, it has fallen to me to fill up. Usually, Lance and I work as a sort of Nascar-like team. He pumps, I toss. Since Lance has been working, it’s been my job to give the car some go-juice. I always think I’ll get a chance to chuck a little when I’m done pumping, but there is always a string of cars and trucks behind me, patiently idling until my little Buick moves. I’m pretty sure there would be some cursing and possibly a hand gesture or two if I took the time to declutter.
Really, it won’t take long to do it. But what I dread is the backseat. I don’t know if all children have this tendency, but my two girls are like little tornadoes that leave a wake of crumbs, spills and various bits of litter that stick to surfaces and require scratchy pads and a strong solvent. I call them “Filth and Squalor”. The girls have learned when I say those words, “Filth and Squalor” that they’re about to have a bath and begin undressing.
We stopped feeding them fruit snacks in the car, because inevitably, there would be half a dozen stuck to the seats and under their carseats and glued to the seat belts. I’m not sure if they are secretly having a contest back there of who can be the messiest, but I’m about to lose my mind. These are snacks, girls, not edible suction-cup ornaments!
And who out there knows how to clean seat belts? Really, please, if you have the answer, I’m willing to pay top dollar. Who knew that seat belts become like plaster of paris, a kind of paper mache masking as a safety feature when soaked in a mixture of juice, soda or ketchup?
All that is nothing compared to the exterior. My windshield looks like someone took a super soaker and filled it with large bugs and proceeded to take aim and fire. I could, quite possibly, connect the dots and become a traveling advertisement for the highest bidder. Why not just use the handy windshield wash feature, Kearsie, and rid yourself of splattered bug guts? I’d love to, but for some reason we have yet to discover, the windshield wash resevoir was removed from the engine. So I have to rely on the squeegie thingy at the gas station. And as I have no desire to have a gun pulled on me for taking too much time at the Walmart gas station to clean my windows, I’m stuck with bug innards strewn across the windshield. Even better is the polka dotted look I have on the black paint job from the obliging birds roosting in the trees where I park my car at work. It’s a vicious choice- shade and bird poo or no shade and scorching red leather seats.
I’m beginning to think that arson is the answer. Perhaps I’ll just push my little Buick out into the pasture in the dead of night and have myself a bonfire. It would work, except for the cow patties. Why does that matter, you ask? Well, lemme just blind ya’ll with some science. Cow manure has methane gas, so it’s flammable.
Well, tomorrow is the big day. Car Cleaning Day. It shall be done, I promise. Or if you’re in the Northern Alabama vicinity and see a large out-of-control fire, you’ll know I gave up hope and tossed a match.