Is it a gender thing or a personality difference that determines the condition of our car interiors?
I’ve written about it before, how Dearly Beloved gets the heeby jeebies whenever we eat anything in his car. And he wonders why I eat fast! It’s downright creepy, having him sneak peeks at me to make sure no dropped crumb lies unretrieved. Like I’ve said, a hamburger with chili and slaw would probably make the man ill. . . and I’D be the one eating it.
He loves his car, but I consider it transportation. It gets us where we’re going in all its sterile, pristine glory.
MY car has everything but a bathroom, since I’m not one to carry the old coffee can. I don’t have to–I don’t have the “let’s drive straight through without stopping” MENtality. Food, drink, music, books –print and CD’s–, puzzles and pens, tissues, napkins, medicines, first aid supplies, dog treats, plastic bags, and miscellaneous supplies await and that’s just what is available in the obvious places. Candy? Reach between the seat and console and pull out some loose M&M’s. Ignore the petrified French fries.
DB calls it a disaster. I consider it a way station on wheels.
Our daughters’ cars are much like mine, only they also have Goldfish, sports equipment, and school papers in theirs. Like DB, our son and the sons-in-law consider it time to clean out the car if there is a coffee cup in a cup holder. In other words, if we’re taking a trip and have to sit in stalled traffic, we can admire the unblemished floor mats in the guy car or party with the girls.
How could there even be a question? Maybe it isn’t gender OR personality. It’s simply SMARTS.
No one in the family is into fancy cars (unless we count the just turned nine-year-old grandson who ignored rattles as a tot and holds a Hot Wheel in each fist in every toddler photo.) Different story when our kids were teenagers and told us we were inflicting cruel and unusual punishment and ruining any chance of cool-idity by providing them no transportation other than the (GASP!) family station wagon. It’s a wonder we didn’t stunt their growth.
Daughter Boo was the worst. OH, the humiliation of having to drive the “green bomb“! It amuses me no end to find her driving a nondescript grey van whenever we visit.
Son and his Weimaraner puppy, Stella, visited last week and it is always a curiosity to see his car. Yes, this is our Mr. Clean, Neat and Tidy, Must-Check-the-Weave-of-the-Fabric-Before-It-Goes-on-My-Body and What-Is-the-Brand Name? son.
His car is an Infiniti with over 200,000 miles on it.
He was involved in an accident several months ago, so it is a badly bruised Infiniti. His previous car had even more mileage and had no dashboard, thanks to his previous dog, a Dalmation who liked to eat dashboards. The floor mats were clean, but one could lift them and watch the miles go by–literally.
It rained almost the entire time he was here. When we went anywhere, it was in DB’s car–no dogs, of course–so I’d paid no attention to Son’s car and was surprised when he said he had to leave before lunch. He usually claims he prefers to drive at night. I asked him why the change.
“It just seems more prudent to drive during daylight hours if one’s headlights are taped in,” he informed us.
When we walked him outside, I looked at the front of his car. Right out of Family Vacation. As a matter of fact, in a Family Vacation moment, the hood had flown up at some point during his travels and now the corners near the windshield curled rakishly in 70’s style, like cat-eye glasses. The headlights were indeed taped in.
I watched in astonishment as he meticiously spread a huge tarp to completely cover the entire backseat, floor, and back of the front seat for the dog. I didn’t even have to look in the front seat to know there was nothing there. Prankster that I am, I handed him a banana and some granola bars. He probably went nuts trying to decide what to do with the peel.