The Stankmobile...

My beloved VW, Baby, is in the shop for his annual round of maintenance and to see if a professional can get the white paint splash off his side that repeated applications of Goo Gone failed to budge. This could be a one day thing or a three day thing, during which I have to beg a ride out of my mom or (have mercy) submit to be driven about in Didgeridoo Boy's car, which I have dubbed The Stankmobile.

Didge says his car is not stank, but I beg to differ. It smells of energy drinks and fast food with a hint of old shoe, all in a base of something that once perspired a great deal. I don't like it one bit. And he won't clean it out - ohhh, no. Can't have that. For some reason, Didge finds comfort in his collection of things that smell horrible that have festered even further in the solar heat. Conversations about his car tend to go like this:

GKG: "I don't want to get in your car."

Didge: "Why?"

GKG: "It smells bad."

Didge: "What does it smell like?"

GKG: "Bad."

Didge: "But what is bad?"

GKG: "It smells like a fart."

Didge: "I know. I like it."

GKG: "But it smells bad."

Didge: "What does it smell like?"

And so on. We could go like this for hours, with me thinking he'll eventually admit the car is stank, and Didge playfully refusing to alleviate said state of stank by learning how to use a trash bag and air freshener. I *could* surprise him and clean it out - - but I don't want to touch anything in that car, and to be honest, I think he's as scared as I am.

But now I have no choice but to ride in the thing.

So - I'm going to clean out Didge's car. And I'm telling all of you this to make it very clear that the only reason I am doing so is so I will not die of asphyxiation between now and when I get my car back. This has NOTHING to do with being a good wife - it's all about self preservation.

Think of me. Send healing vibes, please.