When your car smells like a boot, something fishy is going on

During our honeymoon, we rented a car and drove from LA to SF to Tahoe to Vegas and back to LA again. By the time we returned our PT Cruiser, it was filthy like you wouldn’t believe. In fact, we were so grossed out we started calling it dirtbag halfway through the trip. Note to self: melted snow does not mix well with all that desert sand. That was just the exterior though. It was still cosy and clean inside, which was the more important thing I suppose.

When we got back home, I thought there was no way our car could ever get that dirty again. I thought wrong.

Because this thing called kids, they’re compulsive little mess-makers. It’s like they *want* to live in a shanty town and so they try their hardest to turn my house into a refugee slum trailer trash shack.

Did I say house? I also meant car.

And every little inch of clean space I own.

Just the other day, we were on our way to pick the husband up from work. I was carrying a kid in each hand, digging for my elusive car keys with my elbows/teeth and when I finally managed to get the door open, I nearly passed out from the smell that was coming out from the inside. Something smelt fishy, and I don’t mean it as a metaphor. To be more specific, it was like all the fish in the Singapore River crawled into my car and died there.

Believe me, I’ve had my fair share of foul smells coming from the car (there’s something about the sun’s heat and moist, enclosed areas that make things rot at an alarming rate) and I have a pretty high tolerance for weird odors but holy cow, that was about the most awful smell ever. I think I threw up in my mouth a little.

Even though my arms were about to give way, I stood there for a while, trying to decide if I should attempt to brave imminent death and enter the fish mausoleum. I drew in a huge gasp of air, strapped them both in and started to search for the dead fish. Except that I had to dig through a giant pile of scattered toys. Covered in dried bread pieces and drizzled with sticky, gooey pastes. I swear I saw something move, so I decided to leave whatever monstrosity that was buried underneath all that rubble the hell alone.

Remind me again why I allow my kids to bring food into the car. Oh yes, because food was the only thing that made them stop screaming during those hour-long car rides.

Now I’m paying the price for those hours of (relative) peace and quiet. With mysterious fish carcasses.

I’m pretty sure this means my life sucks.