So thanks to my recent fender bender ( http://wornoutwomen.com/2015/06/26/fender-bender-etiquette-tips/ ) I have been driving my precious children’s vehicle for the last several week. Have you ever had the joy of riding in a car that is basically a driving recreation room for two teenage boys?
My youngest drives it to and from school and activities, and with my eldest spawn home for the summer, they are sharing a vehicle (I know, rough life). So the first day I get in the car, put all my “stuff” in it – purse, briefcase, yoga bag, lunch – I generally need more accessories than Barbie everywhere I go. I get settled into the driver’s seat, and 5′ 3″ me has to adjust everything since I managed to produce giant children.
Everything is dusty, empty soda bottles, wrappers (gum, not condoms) and then I spot something odd:
A ripped off piece of toenail. Dear God. Really? Can you tell from the picture that it is nestled gently in the scope of the dashboard near a vent? It is directly across from the passenger’s seat.
I have handled a lot of really disgusting situations as a mom: baby bed full of smeared poop, dead guinea pigs, blood spurting everywhere from a head wound, pneumonia phlegm – the list could go on for pages. But – I. AM. NOT. CLEANING. THIS. UP.
Kids learn by example? Not always. Have you ever known ANYONE who pulled off toe nail edges in the car and left then on the dashboard?
So I drive the car for the next week (my precious BMW is still in the shop as I write this), and as happens with city driving, periodically my yoga bag slides all over the back seat, or my open purse takes a dive to the floorboard and spills crap everywhere, or the cell phone slides off the passenger seat into the completely unreachable farthest crevice of the auto. But, the toenail? STILL there a week later. Did they superglue the damn thing to dash? Why is it still in place?
I do notice after one particular hot day, parked in an open lot under the Texas sun, it did appear to “arch” a little more into a curled position.
Ten days into driving the testosterone-fueled Toyota – still there. Fourteen days – my toe nail co-pilot is still reporting for duty.
Then, I make a critical error. I should know better. I ask a friend to lunch, and out of habit of southern politeness, I say I will pick her up. Minutes later, I realize what I have done. I have just asked a friend to get in the car, with the toe nail RIGHT in front of her seat. Sh*t.
So with a momma’s sigh, I get a rag, I go to the car, and whisk the mighty toenail to its demise on the driveway. With my luck, it will puncture a tire.