mom’s car

A year and a half ago, I got a new car. During the annoyingly lengthy shopping process, the husband asked me what I would choose to drive if I could have any car in the world and I told him a classic red Mustang. We bought a Nissan Rogue. The husband chose to include every safety feature offered. I drive a playpen. No, that’s not accurate. I drive a purse. The hand lotion is in the driver’s door pocket. The chargers are in the center console, but the bottle opener is in the top tray. There’s a barf bag and emergency potty in the glove box behind the mountain of fast food napkins, straws and spoons. Tissues and clorox wipes are in the middle section. The emergency blanket, first aid kit, trash bags, paper towels, jumper cables and stadium seats are in the rear section.

It’s not the car I asked for, but it’s the car I need… with everything I hope to never need.

Today, I rolled my window down and a spider dropped into the car. Before I could scoop it up and toss it back out, it escaped to the middle of the car where a spider lifetime of crumbs are hidden in the seat cushions. That spider has probably invited all his friends to live in my car and they’re definitely all brown recluses.

Obviously I’m going to need a new car now.

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