72. Car

My car is a pit, which is difficult for a Virgo to reconcile.

Water bottles and more water bottles (some empty, some full, some with lipstick marks-- why not have options?) share Valuable Real Estate with empty Altoids containers; an ancient pine cone resides in a cup holder as a sort of talisman for my younger son; beach towels mingle with forgotten sweaters; relics from the school year such as random worksheets and papers that used to beg for attention now merely take up their spot in the sedimentary layers that make up my car; all competing with other dinosaurs-- literally-- plastic toy dinosaurs that were so urgently needed in the car at one time, but now have been relegated to that no-man's-land of The Crowded Floor.

An abandoned bath toy (?) cozies up to a rubber snake. A forlorn stuffed pig lounges next to a jumble of small trucks and buses of questionable lineage (do they belong to us? or have they been surreptitiously "borrowed" indefinitely from a neighbor friend?), thus completing the tableau.

Sunscreen and bug-spray inhabit their Special Corner of the vehicle, ready for sunny buggy days. A blanket permanently rests in The Way Back, mocking me now while we enjoy yet another 100 degree day, "Ha ha, that's right, you will DEFINITELY need me in all my woolly splendor any day now!" The Husband has also donated an item to my formerly pristine car: a collapsible chair/stool for watching sporting events-- except that he would rather stand because this seemingly clever item is, in all actuality, quite uncomfortable.

Plus, strangely, my car has a proliferation of extra carseats, including one more than Toyota says my particular vehicle can legally accommodate-- which begs the question: where was I planning on putting the extra child in the extra seat? on the roof?

Don't even get me started on the misnamed Glove Compartment: maps of places we will never go, an old speeding ticket (gosh, I hope we paid that), dried-up pens, an underemployed hairbrush, a small flashlight (a nod to Virgo's Practical Side), extra lollipop bribes from the drive-thru window of the bank, sunglasses for me and a few guests (Virgos are nothing if not polite), and a plastic monster or two, with nary a glove lurking anywhere.

Don't forget the actual trash: old milkshake cups and wrinkled paper towels, a catalog from 2006 (most likely expired) to be used as Desperation Reading Material while I wait in the carpool line, an orange rind, discarded library slips reminding us of impending due dates, some Trader Joe's stickers, and a plastic ruler (not sure why that is in the trash-- looks perfectly good to me. Ohh, yuck, there's sticky gum all over it and all over my hand too, yes, now I remember why we opted to throw it away).

When did this happen? My car used to be a Sanctuary Of Cleanliness and my lucky lucky passengers would even comment on how clean it was-- even going so far as to say my precious car looked brand new. They never once said something like, "Should I put a towel down first?" or "Actually, you know what? I think I will drive after all and just meet you over there." That is code for I don't want to sit in that mud on your front seat if indeed it is mud and not something much worse.

When I hire that elusive maid (most likely a fellow Virgo), maybe I can have her devote a full day's attention to my neglected car.

MOV
("Must Overcome Virgo-ness")