Ronnie has appropriated my car for the duration of hunting/boating season. A timid glance in the back reveals a shotgun, a grease gun [Honestly, I am more comfortable with the shotgun. What the HELL is a grease gun? Why do we possess one? What bearings need repacking? And the gleeful installation of the "Bearing Buddies" was really of concern. But I digress.]
To continue the excavation: a rusty winch, an old power pack for the 70hp Johnson outboard, detritus from his latest spree at "Trailers R Us", and discarded camo hats, their foam brims crushed by rolling cargo and mud-rutted fields. A dusting of dove feathers and the tinny shimmy of escaped shot complete the makeover.
RB knows quite well that I don't mind the wear and tear, and might even relish having a few of my past sins erased by trailer escapes and low hanging limbs. [ You know that scene in My Cousin Vinny that attempted to instruct Yankees on the perils of Alabama mud? Um, yeah, don't go out in the rain here without a machete-wielding man, a Ford pickup with towing package, and emotional detachment from all accessories and side mirrors. Marisa deserved that Oscar, but she wasn't lying about the mud.]
But you might ask, while RB is renovating my vehicle, what am I driving?
His car.
A silver gem, lovingly cared for, with immaculate dove grey leather interior.
Oh, the irony.
My sweet Hoarders have laid waste to his backseat. Red wax peeled from baby cheeses, a film of peanut butter and a dusting of glitter are embedded in the carpet. Black ink and red dry erase marker adorn the car seats, arm rests and door panels. Layers of crumpled Ants and Alligators attack the half-naked Barbies hastily buried CSI-style under the seat. Name tags, Tinkerbell stickers, anything with adhesive, has been cemented by the Alabama sun to the rear windows. And this morning instead of the normal carpool melee, I drove my sweet daughters to the doctor.
The stomach flu.
Blood sweat and tears doesn't even begin to cover it.
I'm calling Xzibit.
