Dirty No More

Wanting to shed the “Dirty Suburban Lady” moniker my neighbor most likely pinned me with, I decided a trip to the carwash was in order.  

Now, I’m not a big fan of the carwash but I am even less a fan of laboring in the hot sun over a behemoth of a vehicle that I barely tolerate.  I am not sure we are even allowed to wash our cars in the neighborhood and I want to keep a low profile around here.  I didn’t exactly endear myself to the neighborhood when I dressed as Amy Winehouse last Halloween.  The husbands smiled.  The wives fake smiled.  I don’t know if any of them realized it was just a costume.

I pull up to the oil change bay and put on my game face.  Nice but not too nice because I already know what’s coming.  

“just the oil change…no regular wash…..yes, I know it’s chipped….not today….uh, huh…..no, no…..no, I’ll pass (strained smile)…..thanks…”  I quickly make my way inside because I feel like I have a bullseye on my forehead.  I settled onto a stool inside and started to enjoy my frappucino when a guy comes in with a clipboard…”Suburban?”

And now it starts.  I feel like I’m in the finance room at a car dealership.  He tells me my transmission fluid is dirty and even has a little sample chart to prove it.  The color difference is marginal at best and all I see are dollar signs.  “Not today, thank you.”  He shuffles off only to return a minute later.  I need a new battery now.  “Well, thank you for the information.  I’ll keep it in mind.”  He is pleading with his eyes…..  We regard each other in an uncomfortably long and silent war of wills.  Poor bastard.  I’m pretty sure this isn’t the last I’ll see of him so I dismiss any thoughts of his starving kids waiting for him to bring home dinner. 

I’m convinced now that my sitting duck status is result of my shoe choice…sparkly Kenneth Cole sandals.  Damnit!  Why didn’t I wear the I’m-broke-Tevas or the sensible boring-brown-Borns.  I start trying to tuck my purse out of sight lest anyone knows what kind it is.  Although, any man who could label my purse from sight probably isn’t going to be working on cars…..(just sayin’).  I look around and notice that I am one of only two women here waiting for their cars.  The other lady is outside.  I notice her shoe choice and surmise that no one has tried to sell her seatbelt calibration.     

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She wore the no-nonsense boots.  She also wore the no-nonsense jeans which this guy seemed to like:

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He thought he was being stealth….silly man.

Now thoroughly bored because my car wash nemesis fails to materialize again, I turn my attention to this fine establishment.  It really is one stop shopping of sorts.

If for some peculiar reason (or you’re my neighbor) you find yourself shirtless at the carwash…..

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If the spangled rose is too tame there is always this savage little number:

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Meow……. Yes, that is a tiger and yes it is all spangles.  Scottsdale fashion at it’s finest.  That is what I need to start sporting in order to fit in around this town.  Cougar wear at it’s finest.

Maybe what I really need to fit in here is a personalized license plate because ,really, there aren’t enough on the freeways.  Although, maybe all the good plates are taken such as,

LADYSAS

One of my neighbors.  I don’t think she thought it out all too well…

Oh well, since I’m too lazy and germaphobic to set foot in a DMV, I could go the easy route:

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My hopes were dashed when I couldn’t find one that said Filthy Pirate Hooker.

Wanting to drown my sorrows over not finding the right plate I eyed the fine alcohol section smack dab in middle of the floor.

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Something about buying a bottle of wine at the carwash just seems……….. Klassy.

Hey, I got the snobbery going!  Should be fitting in in no time! 

It’s just hard to take a place seriously when they are pushing religion on me

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Along side dirty greeting cards

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In search of more normal fare, I found a carwash staple….air fresheners.  Although, something about these seemed suspect as well: 

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I don’t know about you but I am a bit hesitant to put my nose in strange places and “smell”…..

I perused the snack section in hopes of finding something to stifle the growls coming from my stomach (not the sparkly tiger shirt).  I spotted these and decided to grab something elsewhere:

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I don’t even know where to begin with these, so I leave you to your own devices.

I see my Suburban is getting the final touches and go outside.  I momentarily consider a switcheroo with a little Mercedes convertible but decide that it wouldn’t be practical.  I’d have to give up two of my kids or a kid and a husband. 

So for now, still just Suburban Lady.

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