On the Highway to Smell

by Lisa Douglas

See that guy?

That guy right there? He’s not a happy guy. You see, it seems our children, in attempting to help us the other day, those beautiful, helpful children didn’t double-check that they were actually done helping us. You know, unloading the groceries from the car.

It’s never a happy time to find that they left TWO WHOLE chicken roasters in one of your best reusable canvas bags. In the summer. I happened upon those little gems while attempting to get in the car and take the kids to school this morning. My nose told me something was definitely awry in our Sienna.

What’s worse? I thought it was my daughter’s chicken nuggets in a bag at first, so I threw her day-old nuggets away, and drove down the road, with rotting chickens in a bag in the trunk, and had no flippin’ clue I was driving the Rotten Meat Van™ today. Apparently, the memo was lost that today was gonna be the grossest. day. ever.

Needless to say, eight long, baked-in-the-sun hours later, I attempted to open said Rotten Meat Van™ and nearly fell over from the smell. Bleh.

He wasn’t too happy bending down and over vacuum-sucking whatever smelly goo leaked from the packaging (by the way, let’s talk about this, shall we? Those friggin’ things were sealed in their packages – how the hell did my car get gooey? Huh?)

As we speak, my van’s windows are open. We’ve sucked and sprayed and doused and vacuumed to our heart’s content. That van is as good as we can get it, without tearing molding apart. Tomorrow, we’ll drop the kids off, go to the commissary, and hope they sell baking soda by the case. And the biggest bottles of Febreze. Ever.

God help us, we have to drive the Rotten Meat Van™ to get there. {wretch}

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