At The Carwash

One of R.J.'s favorite songs is Rose Royce's "Car Wash." Obvious reasons. It's catchy. It involves cars. And it invites hip shaking, finger pointing, foot shuffling fun. And, at this particular car wash "the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool."

We ask R.J. who's the boss frequently--an important reminder for a three-year old.

For months, every morning R.J. washes cars in the sink while the boss (me, of course) gets ready for work.  Trucks, sports cars, and even the occasional plane have been seen getting their bumpers and wheels scrubbed in my sink.

Lately, I've even allowed R.J. to play puddle duck with Cat Duck (a rubber duckie decked out for Halloween as a cat--in a bizarre twist on natural selection).  I should have known.  Last week, he played puddle duck for nearly 20 minutes while I enjoyed  20 minutes to drink a cup a tea at the kitchen table. It was quiet. Quiet is rarely good.

He decided Cat Duck needed a deeper pond. So, he blocked the drain with a hand towel. Then, the flood came, and the pond got too deep. So, he unblocked the drain. He was soaked. The floor was soaked--admittedly, a little warm water can't hurt my bathroom floors (I'm not a mopper, per se). But, they, "what goes around comes around." My time was getting close.

My grandma wasn't a particularly grandmotherly type. She smoked Kents and was an avid fisherwoman--including the cleaning, gutting and cooking part. But, she loved me. I know this because she let me and my cousin  play ooshie-gooshie in her old porcelain sink. "Let" being used in it's loosest sense. Given the opportunity, we would disappear into the bathroom with the sole purpose being to see if and whether we could use the entire bar of soap up before Grandma caught us. We could. And did.

When I was four, we moved into a new house in a new neighborhood.  I had a next door neighbor friend who was four too. One beautiful summer day, we decided to sunbathe--as four year olds would do. (It was 1981, and women were mixing baby oil with iodine to get that natural sunny glow). We took an entire bottle of baby oil and started to work. We coated our feet. And then we skated from one end of the porch to the other. Carefully, so as not to miss any spots, we worked the baby oil into the corners around the porch posts. I hope baby oil has a curative effect; I tell myself it is for this reason that my parents' house still looks so lovely.  It must be the protective coating of baby oil on the front porch.

What goes around comes around. At the car wash, apparently. This Saturday morning, I convinced R.J. to go play with Daddy.  Daddy was sleeping. R.J. wanted to play car wash. No harm. Yet. You'd think the overwhelming scent of "Country Apple" wafting through the house would have roused me. Or Daddy (who was sleeping 10 feet away from the sink). But, we work long hours; I am nine months pregnant. We relish sleeping past 8 on a Saturday.

And so, while the Boss (and Daddy) were happily dozing, R.J. was happily washing a sports car, a cement truck, and his "creepy van." (we should probably learn to be a little more politically correct, but it is a creepy van). He washed them with half a bottle of apple scented lotion. The bathroom smelled lovely, and as I slip-slided across the soaked floor, I had nothing to do but shake my head and smile. Ooshie-gooshie, baby oil-scented memories. I called my mom and laughed. And, I set about figuring how to clear a lotion haze from the windshield of a cement truck.  For one Saturday, the boss at this car wash didn't mind when R.J. acted a fool.