My husband is on a quest to get me a new car. Hands off, buddy. My car is my friend. Trade it in on pain of death. I know, a lot of people would really love a new car, but I am a creature of habit and loyalty.##M:[more]## Once I get used to something, it takes a lot to make me budge. I am one of those people advertisers want to grab early in life, say, at conception, when all my consumer preferences are starting to take root.
My husband says we should get a new car because he wants all the latest safety features, especially side curtain airbags. But it turns out those airbags only extend to the second row of seats. I would feel uncomfortable choosing which child to put in that third row unprotected. Wouldn’t it feel a bit like Russian roulette every time we ran out to Target? And while he alleges the noblest of reasons, his relationship with my car was over the day he sat in the front seat and emerged with a piece of bubble gum strategically stuck for maximum hilarity on his new pants. He didn’t know it was there until he sat down, tried to get up, and felt some strange adhesive activity on his behind. Adding insult to injury, he got a sticky trail of goo on his hands when he tried to peel it off. I believe the weather was warm that day. You get the picture.
I drive a 2003 Dodge Caravan Sport in a shiny metallic blue. It seats seven, so there’s always room for the gaggle of kids we always seem to collect. I was never one of those suburban moms who felt the minivan projected the wrong image and needed a sportier vehicle to define my inner wild self.
The really great thing about my car is that should we ever become snowbound in a drift for weeks, we would be able to survive. That’s just how much edible matter there is hidden in its nooks and crannies. It’s just my husband’s misfortune that his backside found the only non-edible food matter out in plain view. One day I was hungry, very hungry, so hungry I was about to try to find out if the plastic on the dashboard was made of digestible fiber. I still had to cross Route 1 for my afternoon carpool duties, and I realized it would be quite a while before I could stop for something to eat. Then a lightbulb went off. We had gone to McDonald’s the day before. Sure enough, my children proved once again their consistent inability to remove their trash from the car. The bag was still there, and I hit the motherlode of stray fries.
In the process of foraging I discovered more edible matter. So that’s where the rest of the bag of gummy bears landed after the movies last week. I found a lollipop molded into the cup holder, half melted into the plastic. There was an open box of Peanut Butter Patties, the find of the day. I dug deeper into the mess, much as an archaeologist uncovers layers at a site. I hit a treasure trove of gumball machine toys, all bought with the much-begged-for quarters, all promptly forgotten practically the minute we got in the car. My daughter had sworn she had been practicing every day, but there was her music, left in the car since the last lesson. A forensic scientist would have a field day in my car.
While I’m at it, what is this strange compulsion that husbands seem to have about cleaning out cars they don’t drive? I carry maps and books, and I have a collection of hats and mittens and extra sweaters, even bathing suits in the right season because you just never know when you might need one. “I cleaned out your car for you,” my husband declares, expecting to get a pat on the back. “And I put away all that extra stuff you’ve been carrying around.” Arrgh! Doesn’t he understand that I have a system? I will also never understand why he needs to get my car cleaned before a big trip. It’s a standing tradition with him. Doesn’t he understand that after the first rest stop it’s all over? That the spill festival has only just begun and his efforts are negated just like that?
The only way I’d trade my car in is if I could opt for neck and back massage seats. It probably will never happen because manufacturers would realize the risk of moms across the United States falling asleep at red lights mid-carpool. Whaddaya mean Mom’s snoring?
I’d want a car with a built-in coffee machine and a refrigerator stocked with other fun beverages. I’d have a permanent stash of white chocolate truffles, cheese, and fresh pineapple chunks.
My dream car would have a double-sound system, one for the kids and one for me. Let them squabble over the Shrek 2 soundtrack or Ashlee Simpson wailing about sibling rivalry.
We have enough of our own, thank you very much. I would also install one of those partitions like cabbies have in New York, bullet-proof, not necessarily because I’m afraid for my life, but just in case the squabbling in back rises to the level where projectiles are hurled. May the fittest survive, I would smile, and drive into the sunset.
