This week, I spent far too many hours hanging out at the car dealership’s service center. There was no accident or massive repair, just the joys of vehicle maintenance. But both mine and my husband’s cars needed to be seen and I am the resident take-care-of-everything person, so sit and wait I did.
Luckily there is wifi, so life was able to continue as usual. I set up my laptop and made the showroom my office. They even had coffee. Really, I can’t complain. And I won’t. About the dealership, anyway.
Bringing any of our cars to any place where a live human will have to get inside, or even look inside, fills me with shame. Each vehicle looks like we are actually homeless people who live out of our cars.
Though I strive to keep my car clean, I am thwarted at all turns by small (and not so small) people who are hell-bent on driving me insane.
For the most part, if you don’t look behind you, you can sit in the front of my mom-mobile without worrying that you will catch a communicable disease. But if you make the terrible mistake of turning around, it will feel like you accidentally happened upon a small alley, where a down-on-her-luck ballerina has taken up residence whilst waiting for a call-back and dreaming of dancing the sugar plum fairy.
There’s a dance bag, the contents of which are spilling out onto the rug, dirty dishes, half-drunk water bottles, scattered papers and writing utensils without ink. Sometimes, you can find outerwear and on a really bad day, underwear.
I don’t think once ever, in all the years of dance training, that that bag has been completely zipped closed. It always has this gaping opening that resembles a bulimic dance store, vomiting out the multi-colored leg warmers, warm-up jackets and orphaned ballet slippers it’s been bingeing on for far too long.
It doesn’t matter what I say, how I plead, yell, or even if I threaten an invasion by ants and/or cockroaches. She moves so quickly away from the stopped vehicle that anything left behind is but a distant memory, littering my car. And my soul.
But how can I blame this innocent and beautiful child when it’s clear that her penchant for filth and putrescence has been genetically passed to her from her father?
My husband drives a car that was mine for the first year of its life. I love the car and was loathe to hand it over. However, it became apparent, during my ownership, that it just wasn’t mom-ish enough to suit my needs. The first time I picked my kids up at school in the car, my son remarked, “This car has swag.” Obviously, it was a vehicle for a much cooler person. Or a dad who rarely has to haul three dogs to the vet with two kids fighting in the backseat.
So I moved up to the wagon queen family truckster (if you get the reference, you’re my new bestie) and handed my non-mom car off to a cruel and thankless husband, who proceeded to befoul it with his slovenly ways.
I actually wince when I open the door to that car. If mine looks like a homeless dancer resides in the back, his looks like a serial killer with ADD uses it as a storage facility. For what purpose does any normal person need three pairs of vice grips, two sets of jumper cables, strips of metal, piles of rags, a first aid kit and fish bait, preserved in some creepy liquid? It’s all bad.
Each time he needs work done on his car, I do the best I can to make him go to the appointment. That way he can be the subject of the mechanic’s scorn and judgment (because you know that service tech is judging me.)
When I can’t get a Saturday appointment or need it done sooner than the weekend, my stomach drops. I grab a garbage bag and head to the driveway. Sometimes I just drag over the whole garbage can. It takes one step out of the equation. Let me just say that I am so glad I bought him neoprene seat covers when I passed off the car.
One day, that vehicle will be my daughter’s. I get a twitch when I think of the lifetime of disgustingness that the poor car will endure. However, I take heart knowing that when that happens, the swath of filth and dance gear will follow her. And I can have my car fumigated.
Since I still have many year to go, I think I’ll make my own car air freshener.
Natural Car Air Freshener
Ingredients
one piece of wool or felt
essential oils of choice (peppermint, orange, rosemary, bergamot, grapefruit, etc.)
string, twine or rafia
Directions
Cut the fabric into a shape that you like and punch a hole near the top (to hang it from). Generously drop the oils onto the fabric. Let it sit for a day or so, to let the oils absorb. Use the string to tie it in your car.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
[contact-form-7 id=”29293″ title=”Write to Laurie”]
The survival of local journalism depends on your support.
We are a small family-owned operation. You rely on us to stay informed, and we depend on you to make our work possible. Just a few dollars can help us continue to bring this important service to our community.
Support RiverheadLOCAL today.