Well, it was somewhere in the car anyway-- I didn't see any feces in the back, all our shoes (and cleats) were clean and yet my car stunk of warm dog excrement.
The thing is that even if there was a full-on Great Dane living in the backseat of my Honda CR-V, we'd never know it for the garbage dump that is the kids' seats. The best way to describe my backseat would be an aquarium (via millions of goldfish crackers) in Chernobyl; by "best" I mean "nicest."
Husband, being kind and wonderful and generous and possibly insane, offered to clean the car out today. Well, it actually went down like this:
Me: I don't wanna run today. I'm gonna take the kids to Amsterdam and we'll go swimming at Grandma and Grandpa's instead and I'll get my run in that way.
Husband: You can't drive your car to Amsterdam.
Me: Eh? Why not?
Husband: Because it smells like dog crap. You'll die of asphyxia with the windows up on the highway.
Me: Oh. Oh yeah.
Husband: Plus you need to clean out your car today.
Me: Well, anyway, those are the same problems.
Husband: Right, so how are you gonna clean your car from the pool?
Me: Well, I was just gonna drive it in with the windows down.
Husband: Can't make it any worse.
Me: So, problems are solved. Can you help me pack the kids up?
Husband: No and yes.
We fed and watered the children (it was noon) and got them almost ready to leave when Husband reappeared and said, "I can't, in good conscience, allow the children or myself to be transported to your parents' house in your car."
Seriously-- the DRAMA in this man.
I looked at him, sighed a big sigh and said, "Well then, I guess we'll just clean out my car at my parents' house because the kids are already excited to go."
Husband repeated his DRAMA about good consciences and how we'd all die if we drove the hour and a half to my parent's abode. Oh, Amsterdam is what I call the little town my parents live in (Amherstburg) because it's an hour and a half from Chatham and it feels like you need a passport and an international flight to get there. It's cute and all, but dang the drive is long.
Right. Drama. So I said, "Well, I suppose I could take your truck with the children and YOU can clean my car out from the comfort of your own home."
...
Down the highway I tooted-- well not really tooted-- Husband drives a truck, and trucks don't Toot, they Shart. Off I sharted, down the highway to Amsterdam and a pool and cardio via lap swimming while my children splash around with my parents and my husband cleans my car. The kids and I made a nice little trip of it, stopping at a cute bookstore and picking up a bunch of random produce at three different fruit/veggie stands along the way.
Random: I've always wanted to get a video of a sign that says "Fruit Stand 50 meters" and then, 50 meters later, zoom in on, like, Elton John just standing there looking around. Honestly, I look for an Elton John cutout every time I see a fruit stand sign and I crack myself up every time. I even picture the scene in Family Guy-esque images. Elton John is the 1978 version of himself with his gigantic sunglasses and crazy pants and a white feather boa, in case you, too, want a visual. And in typical Family Guy fashion, the quick clip takes way too long and everyone is just staring at each other and I'm cracking up on my couch, but in my car.
Around 8pm I got a text from Husband.
"Somewhere on this earth, a Japanese man is openly weeping for what has been done to this car."
I told him that he's hilarious but that my car was made in North America so probably the factory workers in Japan don't give a care what I do to the car, and thanks for cleaning it out. He replied "The hardest part was getting the raccoon family to leave." I said "Haha." He said, "I managed to only get a fine from MoE." "Who's Moe?" I asked, knowing none of our neighbours are named Moe. "Ministry of the Environment. They showed up with Hazmat suits when I opened up the back hatch."
This is what I have to live with.
I returned home (minus Kiddo #1 who negotiated to stay with Grandma and Grandpa for not one, not two, but three nights!). Sure, the inside of the car is spotless and (I checked) smelling good, but the outside is still dirty and the windows are still smeary. Boo.
I called to Hubby who groaned and said, "I can't help you bring Kiddo #2 in-- I'm sore and exhausted."
Me: You played soccer on Tuesday. It's Sunday.
Hubby: It's from cleaning your car.
Me: (silence-- mostly because I have no idea how to convey the emotions I'm feeling right now.)
Hubby: I didn't even get to wash it.
Me: I noticed that. It's gross on the outside now.
Hubby: Well, I cleaned your car for 6 hours today.
In the Choose Your Own Adventure version of this conversation, the reply would look like this:
 |
| I knew it! |
Turn to page 68 if you said, "You spent 6 hours cleaning my car? No wonder your morning shower takes so long."
Skip to page 3 if you said, "Wow. That's a testament to the filth. I'm sorry honey. I'll never do that again, probably, once the kids have moved out."
Hop over to page 5 if you looked at the wall and thought nasty and then nice thoughts and then a little bit nasty thoughts again. Not nasty like Playboy, but nasty like Dexter.
If you cheated while reading the Choose Your Own Adventure books and always looked at the three options to make sure the one you picked wasn't the Stop sign/End point and re-chose when it was, then you'll want to know which one was the 'right' choice.
Ha. Yes, you would, Cheater. Yes, you would.
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