Car Bomb

When we were kids, we had good family friends that we went to California with every summer. Their four kids to our two plus their parents and my mom made for one packed suburban. After a week of driving to and from the beach to the rental house, our friend’s dad would declare that the SUV smelled like “there were too many butts dragging across the seats”. This became a signature scent in our family and anytime something smelled wrong, it was always reminiscent of too many butts.

Last night I confessed, while laughing hysterically, that I had dropped an entire cheese stick between my seat and the console of my car. I had been trying to open it for the kiddo and it slipped right out of the plastic. Now, for anyone who knows me, any friends or roommates, they will testify that I am neat. Annoyingly neat. ridiculously clean. My worst fear is that someone-will-think-my-house-smells-funny kind of clean. So the fact that I’m knowingly driving around with a cheese stick under my seat is so appalling, it’s funny.

Peter, not believing me, trucked out to the garage with a fork in hand to retrieve said snack. When asked why I hadn’t done something about it, I said that I had A. forgotten about it having become accustomed to the smell that ridding around with a toddler who snacks in the car brings and B. I’m having my car detailed this weekend and I was going to have them get it out. disgusted, Peter forged on moving the driver seat forwards and backwards, continually stabbing at the missing dairy product. I, a little buzzed after a glass (or 2) of wine am giggling in the passenger seat. The role reversal of the situation was hilarious. It’s also a good 116 degrees in our garage so it may have been a heat induced state, I’m not sure.

Five minutes later, Peter grabbed the hardened stick off the fork, threw it away and declared me disgusting. All while scretly finding it hysterical because I know he’s accidentally dropped an entire spit cup in his truck. I’ll take a wayward cheese stick over that any day.

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