We are a two-car family. My husband drives the sexy, little midlife crisis car and I drive the monster kid tank.
I suppose it makes sense because he only uses his car to drives himself to and from the train station, whereas I use mine to drive the kids and a cast of thousands around all day. Naturally, I also need a lot of space to carry tons of groceries to feed the kids and their thousands of friends. And, of course, I need a big car so I have a reason to whine to my husband about the fact that he gets to drive a sexy, little car and I have to drive a big mom-mobile.
Because he has a nice car, he keeps it immaculate. Because I have kids eating junk in my car all the time, my car routinely looks like an explosion inside a Frito-Lay factory. I really do try to keep it clean, I swear.
But it seems that whenever my husband needs to drive my car, it’s usually right after some kind of spontaneous junk food combustion happened in the back seat.
The irony, of course, is that in the house, I am obsessively neat and he is not, whereas in the car, he is Mr. Clean and I am Queen of the Pig Sty.
“Oh my god, this is disgusting,” said my husband one day as he surveyed the wreckage in the second row. “I don’t understand how you can keep the house so clean and your car so gross.”
“I don’t understand how you can keep your car so clean and leave your socks on the floor in the house,” I responded defensively.
“There are crumbs on the back seat,” he said.
“There is a banana peel on your night table,” I shot back.
“There’s half a cup of coffee in the cupholder,” he announced.
“There is a pile of newspapers a foot high in the bedroom,” I shouted.
“I haven’t read those, yet,” he countered.
“Well, I didn’t finish that cup of coffee, yet,” I said. We stared each other down. It was a disgusto stand-off.
There was a long pregnant pause and then finally I caved. “OK, I’ll work on the car thing,” I finally said.
“I’ll try harder with the house,” he replied. We shook hands. I peered inside the car.
“Wow, you’re right,” I said. “It is pretty gross in here.”
“So…” I said. “Can I borrow your car?”
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