The day the dirty car died

I walked out my door bright and early Sunday morning.

I was headed to church alone, as is the custom I'm told when you're married to a man in the military.

I didn't even have to step off my front stoop, however, before I saw it.

My car. Covered in brown goop.

It seemed all the birds in all the world had pooped all the bird poop ever pooped on my car Saturday night.

And then those birds apparently shook the yard's overhanging magnolia tree into such a frenzy that it shed approximately 432, 621, 905 seed pods all over my car's surface.

But because they wouldn't be satisfied until my car's royal-blue exterior was no longer visible, those very birds then must have stomped upon their own feces and those magnolia seed pods until everything about my car's body was no longer visible under a layer of brown and white sludge.

My Nissan Rogue had been reinvented into the Poop Mobile.

The Poop Mobile, which - it has to be said - I drove to church.

Because the good Lord knows I needed to pray for guidance about what I had to do next.

You see, the thing is, I don't really wash cars.

I'm serious; I really don't.

Now, I'm not pulling some princess, Southern belle card here: I wash plenty of other things around these parts.

I just don't wash cars.

That's always been one those things only my husband does.

Much like wearing boxer-briefs or retrieving boxes that are above my reach.

My husband is the person in our marriage who washes our cars.

Let me assure you that this was not some traditional gender-role decision; it's just the way the household duties got divided up in our home.

The hubs shrinks, shrivels, or disintegrates most of our clothing, so I do the laundry.

And I wouldn't know paint thinner from wiper fluid, so he maintains the automobiles.

It's a simple life, but it works for us.

Except when he's away, being a good U.S. Navy recruit.

Leaving me all alone on a Sunday, dressed up in my church-goin' finery and staring at a poop-drenched car.

Or, four hours later, a poop-hardened car. Because I'd driven that bad boy to church (and Target) that morning - poop and all - giving my little Nissan at least three hours of prime baking time in the Florida sunshine.

Now, on my morning travels, I did drive by several car washes. But I'm currently on a tight budget, and those things cost way more than they ever should.

So I returned home, changed into an old T-shirt, and stared at the poop-hardened car in thought.

What to do? What to do?

I debated calling my father. As a child, I'd watched him wash the family car many a time. I'd even helped. (If by "help," you mean danced around in a tank suit flinging suds and water everywhere until my father hosed me and the car down together before shooing me back into the house.)

But then I realized my father - a man who once dreamed of owning his very own car wash - would be ashamed his only daughter didn't know how to wash her own automobile. (The only defense I had lined up was that I'd never seen my mother wash a car in her entire life. So, after all, I was only mirroring the marriage roles my parents had acted out for me in my childhood years. How was I supposed to know any different? I'd say. But I figured that wouldn't be well-received by the Car-Washing King.)

So I Google-d it.

And I learned that hand soap will not hurt the paint on your car - which was, really, my ultimate goal. Because I can just imagine my husband returning home from boot camp to find splotching, peeling paint on our car. He'd love that.

So I created my own diluted car wash with hand soap and water, carried it out to the front yard in a bucket, and went looking for the hose.

I then had to face my fears and climb into the bushes to turn said hose on, which basically required me to pray like the dickens that I didn't see, feel or hear any reptiles - my biggest fear ever - in the brush.

When I escaped the foliage snake-free with a spouting hose, I began the official car-washing process, which can be summed up as follows:

Spray car. Drop hose. Create mud around car. Scrub car with hand-soap solution and old washcloth. Stop and worry that washcloth is creating micro-scratches in the car's paint job. Realize I don't care. Keep scrubbing at poop-magnolia-seed mixture. Allow mud puddle to grow near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Slip in mud puddle because I'm wearing foam flip-flops. Get up. Tug at hose. Realize hose only reaches one side of the car. Throw hose and yell "Crap!" at my watching dogs. Go to house and get keys. Drip mud. Get in car. Turn it around and back it into the drive way. Get out of car. Slip in mud puddle again. Get hose. Spray car. Drop hose. Create even more mud around car. Scrub car some more with hand-soap-solution and old washcloth. Mud puddle grows to infinity near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Start to slip in muddle puddle again but manage to do some sort of ungraceful split and remain partially upright. Spray my watching dogs on accident with hose. Chase down dogs who now think they're getting a bath. Catch dogs and put them back on the front porch. Find house in the ever-increasing mud puddle. Say a prayer and head back into the bushes to turn hose off. Drip mud all the way back into the house. Realize I forgot the dogs on the front porch. Go back and get the dogs, who are staring ominously in the direction of the now-still hose. Shake my fist at every chirping bird I hear and run out to the yard to make sure the fowl aren't pooping on my now (kinda sorta) clean car for the entire Sunday afternoon.

Huzzah!

Graceful though it wasn't, 30 minutes and a slightly bruised behind later, I had a poop-free car.

Take that, evil birds.

This chick knows how to clean a car. (Barely.)

I'm sure my husband would be proud. I managed to be both man and woman of the house yesterday, hitting the grocery store, cooking dinner, doing a load of whites, and cleaning the family vehicle.

My father, on the other hand, is probably reading this and shaking his head, wondering where - exactly - he went wrong in my rearing.

And the rest of you are probably thinking, "Dear heavens. Did she just make us read a post about washing her car? She's really reaching, isn't she?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

Unfortunately, my life sans husband is just that thrilling, my friends.

Plus, I totally needed a chance to mention "poop" at least 15 times in a blog post. I had an itch; it needed to be scratched.

Suffice it to say, it was only a matter of time.

Never fear, though. I promise it will get a little bit more exciting around here soon.

Because next week, I'm going to have to do something about the grass in the front of my house formally known as the "lawn."

Now, it's resembling some sort of weedy forest.

So tune in next time for Girl v. Lawnmower: The Series.

Dad's gonna be so proud.

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Happy Monday everyone! Hope you had a good weekend!