You Know It's Time to Clean Out the Car When...

You have a rogue Combos bag attempting every means of escape. No matter where I throw it, it somehow makes its way to the floor of the driver's side of the car. From there, it turns into a jet-propelled paper airplane every time I open the car door.

Yesterday, I got E all buckled into her car seat, lunches set neatly in the front passenger seat. I walked around to the driver side, swung the door open, and it escaped.

A woman was walking into our building, and I imagined the rogue Combos bag flying up and getting plastered across her face, hair whipping in the wind, arms flailing, purse tumbling to the ground, cosmetics rolling across the parking lot.

I dove to the ground and caught it at her feet. I giggled nervously... "Uh... just having my morning cup of coffee and bag of Combos," I joked. She smiled politely, judgmentally.

I stuffed the bag down onto the floor of the passenger side of the car, as I hopped back in. It also smells... there must be a used diaper wedged under one of the seats. It's like a strange mix of urine and junk food. My biggest fear is that one of my coworker's is going to suggest car-pooling somewhere, so I've come up with a list of excuses just in case:

1. There's no gas in my car.
2. I got a ride with, um, Lance...a..lot this morning.
3. Sure, if you don't mind riding with my 2 pit-bulls!
4. Better not, I spilled seafood gumbo all over the back seat last night.
5. Eh, sorry... drove the smart car today.