It’s better than diggin’ a ditch
We had a weekend full of festivities around here. There was a birthday party at the pool on Friday night, a t-ball party at the pool on Saturday, and basically nothing on Sunday because I didn’t want to look at the pool for at least twenty-four hours. After all, summer is a marathon, not a sprint and we can’t burn ourselves out this early in the game. As it stands, all the food served at the pool grill has already started to taste the same which is bad considering the culinary offerings range from chicken fingers to bean and cheese chalupas.
The good news is that all the drinks are served with Sonic-type ice. It’s worth the price of membership to be able to sit poolside and drink all manner of cold beverages out of a styrofoam cup filled with that ice.
In between all the weekend fun, Caroline kept asking if we could wash my car. In fact, it was the first thing she requested on Saturday morning but I managed to refocus her attention on the impending t-ball party with a lecture about the importance of saving our energy. But then she brought it up again on Sunday morning and then again on the way home from church.
Apparently she has fond remembrances of the last time we washed my car at home even though it’s been over a year ago. I’d like to think it’s because I know how to bring out the fun in any situation, although this is a real conversation we had Saturday night after she heard me refer to “the fun police”.
“Mama? What are the fun police?”
“Well, it’s just a name for people who don’t like to see other people having too much fun.”
“Oh, so that’s like you. You’re the fun police.”
I’m not going to lie. It was like a knife through my heart. I guess being labeled the fun police is the price you pay for making a person leave the pool before they were able to eat their third ice cream sandwich.
And for the record, I AM fun. At least that’s what I tell myself.
We got home from church, ate some lunch, and then I told her to go put on some old clothes so we could go wash the car. Nothing like waiting until the temperature was comparable to sitting directly on the equator. I put on a big, floppy hat to protect my face from the sun because I don’t need any more sun spots, not to mention the fact that I have a big PMS breakout on my left cheek that would need its own chair at a restaurant. Caroline decided to put on her big hat too, and as we walked out the door, P reminded us to make sure we set up the orange cones around the perimeter of the car to warn oncoming traffic.
Because at least three cars will drive by in an hour.
And all of them will slow down to see who the nerds are wearing the big straw hats surrounded by orange cones.
I let Caroline set out the cones because she needs to earn her keep.
We filled a bucket with soapy water and began to scrub. Caroline was very enthusiastic and exclaimed, “THIS IS GOING TO BE SO MUCH FUN!”
Approximately three minutes later she declared it was too hot, she was all soapy, and was going to go back inside, leaving me to die of heat stroke all by myself.
However, I couldn’t just hose the car off and call it done. I had to finish it because y’all should know by now that this is the sort of task that causes all my compulsive, perfectionist tendencies to ramp up at warp speed. I went into the garage to look through our arsenal of car wash supplies and was disappointed to see our stash isn’t what it used to be.
Sure, that may look like a lot to the untrained eye, but it is nowhere near the amount P usually needs to feel secure enough to sleep at night knowing he could wake up the next day and wash sixty-five cars at a moments notice. P is a fan of buying in bulk.
As Exhibit A, I present this bag of Japanese bread crumbs that he purchased several months ago.
Granted, he uses these when he fries fish and he does make the best fried fish in the world. However, last I checked we weren’t planning on hosting a fish fry for every living thing in a thirty mile radius.
But we could if we needed to and that’s the most important thing.
I asked him later what happened to his car wash arsenal. It’s not like we’ve been using it to wash our cars since that only happens every twelve or thirteen months. I thought maybe he’s been so consumed with work and Operation Attic Cool-down that he’d just moved on to more important things like researching every single brand of radiant barrier paint or making his daily trip up into the attic to see what the temperature is and then record it in a little journal he’s been keeping to chart the progress of our new, improved attic fan.
I am not making that up. It’s a real thing. The first time I saw it I thought maybe he was taking his temp every morning to see when he’s ovulating and then I remembered that men don’t ovulate and we’re not trying to have a baby. Plus, 110 degrees would be a little on the high side for even the sickest person.
It turns out that he was vaguely aware that our car wash supplies have been dwindling, but didn’t know to what extent. The culprit is Shorty, one of our landscape company employees.
Shorty rides the city bus to work everyday, but he brings his bike on the bus with him so he can ride it from the bus stop down the street to our house. Obviously, it gets dirty in that process so Shorty faithfully coats his bike in Armor-All each day before he leaves and rides it another 1/10th of a mile back to the bus stop. He likes to keep his ride looking fresh.
The ladies are suckers for some shiny bicycle tires.
All I know is the next time Caroline starts begging me to go wash the car, I’m going to send her out and tell her she can wash Shorty’s bike.
Orange cones are optional.
