R-rated Car

A few months back we decided to sell my 2005 Honda Pilot. It was looking pretty shabby, so my husband hired a guy named John to detail it. 

Halfway through the detailing, I went outside to give John some water. John turned off his specialized cleaning mechanism (No, it wasn’t a vacuum. I know what a vacuum is). He was breathing hard, sweating and appeared to be traumatized. “Your husband didn’t warn me,” he said, taking a swig of water and catching his breath.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Let me guess, your daughter has been driving this car and this is the first time it’s ever been detailed.”

“Yep,” I said, throwing my daughter under the bus, or in this case, the dirty car.

And when I say dirty, it’s not that bad. If I were to compare it to movies, it’s maybe R-rated dirty.  Those 17 and older can handle it. Well, except John. 

Mostly, it’s just make-up all over the interior. Can I help that I’m an excellent multi-tasker and put foundation on as I drive? This results in both my face and the steering wheel having a nice shade of ivory glow. 

My husband, who prefers a smudge-free interior, has forbidden me from putting make-up on in his car. 

Basically, I have to go through airport security in my front driveway.

“Let me see your hands.”

Palms out. Inspects hands. Nods.

“Make-up bag.”

Removes foundation from bag. Shakes head.

“I’m not going to use it,” I say.

Returns foundation to bag. Bag secured in locked trunk.

Apparently my make-up is not a carry on.

John returns to cleaning the inside and I admire the exterior. The smudges and dents have been buffed out. It is smooth and clean, practically new. It’s as if John shot the car with Botox.

Unfortunately, not even car Botox can take care of the cracked and dangling left bumper. I, I mean my daughter, has run into the bushes numerous times. And with each new hit, the bumper cracks a little more and has to be shoved back into place a little harder.

She should be more careful.

Two hours later, John has finished. He’s still sweating and has a far-away look in his eyes, like he’s seen things he doesn’t want to talk about. 

He holds up a small trashcan. “Ironically, this was the cleanest thing in the car.”

I exhale in disgust. “Teenagers.”

John puts his hands on his head and looks at the car.

Did he just shudder?

Am I going to have to pay for his therapy?

“It looks amazing,” I say.

A smile returns to his face. Thank God we didn’t break him.

“Do not let your daughter drive this car.”

“Oh, I won’t,” I say. “In fact, I will be having a talk with her later.”

And I’m not lying.  The talk will be, Here’s $20. If you ever run into John, it was all you.