Curdled Minivan

 
 

By Marianne Walsh

Blogger

My minivan really started to stink the other day. This inspired an extremely thorough investigation and analysis of its entire contents. I have a strict no-eating policy which was implemented after several unholy discoveries were made during carpool. Back then, I learned how items can fester. And festering is never, ever a good thing.

In search of the root cause, I filled three Hefty bags worth of the following:

  • Assorted missing hats, gloves & coats

  • Sucker sticks courtesy of the bank (it's hard to get around the no-eating rule when my deposit slips come back with an army of brightly colored lollipops)

  • Stuffed animals

  • School notices

  • Birthday party invitations (my apologies to anyone who did not receive an RSVP from me during the last five months)

  • Red Bull cans (I own this one)

  • Baby Wipes (which I will gladly carry in my minivan until the kids go to college)

  • Hockey skates, sticks and helmets

  • Seven umbrellas (apparently I was planning for the Apocalypse)

  • 4 snow brushes (ditto)

Even after purging my excessive load and heading to the local carwash for a deep and complete interior cleaning, the smell would not dissipate. It was a weird combination of crayons, eggs, and wet dog all wrapped together in a burrito shell. One whole aerosol can of disinfectant spray was employed, and I quickly installed a new rearview mirror air freshener.

The odor remained.

When my husband arrived home from a night at the firehouse, I asked for his help in determining my sanity. I could not be imagining the smell. It had to be real. After a quick trip to the driveway and back, Joe figured me for a loon.

"It smells like it always does," he confirmed.

"But it smells gross," I countered.

"That is the smell of children, honey. In particular, boy children. You better get used to it."

I don't care what he says. I'm going back to the carwash tomorrow for the $17.99 ultra air-freshener guaranteed to remove even the smell of "boy."

In the meantime, I am terrified to think what my mom-mobile is going to be like in a few shorts years when I cart around teenagers with all of their gym shoes and hormones.

Perhaps I ought to start buying stock in Lysol now.

 
 





 
 
 
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