What the?

Not too long ago, a person whom shall remain nameless (my husband!), gave me a hard time because my car was a tad — how shall I say this?? —

uhm.

dank.

I am not known for my neatness in any way, shape nor form, so said dankiness should not come as a surprise to most of you. Ho-ever, even I had to admit that my car had become more of what I would classify as a giant purse than a comfortable mode-o-transport.

Empty coffee mug? Check.

Granola Bar Wrapper? Check. Check. Check.

Three pairs of shoes? Check. (So that's where my black sandals have been!)

Arby's receipt from two and a half weeks ago? Check.

Martini Shaker from a visit to my friend's in the cities last November? Check.

SO. The next day, after I got over being grrrr, I decide to clean up my act. Naturally, I feel the need to do this over my lunch hour because for some reason I cannot stand to do errands after work. Can. not. stand. to. Nope, not doin' it.

So, after depositing most of my junk in the trunk, I stop by the cash machine! My favorite! A money-machine!!!!! And order myself a twenty. (from hubby's account, not MINE, MINE, MINE.) That'll do me a nice spiff-up for my car and buy me a sanich for yunch.

Next stop: one of those snazzy automatonic car washes. Don't you love♥ technology?! We have no need for interaction with another humanoid. Just become mezmer-mezmer-mesmerized by a vaguely robotic voice gently instructing us via squaw box to follow orders. Hoorah, twenty-first century!!

First I needed some change, and what to my wondering eyes should appear? An automatic changer and eight tiny reindeer. (well, not really — but there was a change machine.) Since this apparatus does not have a drone speaking from within, I had to actually read the instructions, which were an enjoyable combination of diagrams and words. KEWL.

I could see by the imagery that this changer, would indeed be happy to exchange my twenty dollar bill for smaller denominations. You could put in ones, fives, tens or (yay!) twenties. So, after double checking which direction President Jackson (or Roosevelt, or Jefferson, or whom-eva! is on the frickin' twenty) should be facing, I feed my bill into the hungry mouth of my pal the change-o-matic. This is gonna be way cool! And after I get my fives, I'll change one of them for some ones and quarters so I can give the ol car interior a vacuum.

I'm really getting into it, which is normal for me. Once I commit, I'm in 100%.

I'm practically salivating with anticipation (out you spot!) as the changer consumes my money. But, pow, wham, bang, Batman! From the gurgling, churning and clanging, it appears that there may be a problem. Warning Will Robinson. Danger. Danger.

Slowly, as the clinking-clanking gradually evolves into a violent shimmy-shaking, I begin connecting the dots.

Zounds!!!

Coinage the likes of which I've never seen come spewing out of the change-o-matic.

Utter regurgitation, I say!

Oh no it di-unt!

Uhm. Ye-aaaahhhhhhh.

It did.

That change-o-matic don't got no bills, mother. No ones, no fives, no tens. But it does got your twenty, sucka.

Do the math. You know how many quarters there are in $20?

A lot.

It reminded me of the Brady Bunch episode where Bobby (or was it Peter? They're all interchangeable) wanted to wash his clothes for some reason, without the rest of the gang knowing. Well, you guessed it. Bobby, no!! Too much soap!

Too! Much!

He goes to get a sanich or something and comes back later only to discover bubbles, bubbles everywhere! Aawww no! Bobby, whatcha gonna do??

and fade to black.

Back to my problem.

Needless to say, I was a-freakin'. Look to the left of me, look to the right. Thank the Lord, nobody in sight. As the quarters over-floweth, I cup my hands under the drain pipe and hope for the best. As soon as my hand-basket is full, I dump the coins onto the driver's seat of my purse-mobile.

I don't even count it. I honestly don't care. I'm in damage-control mode. Clean up the evidence and clear the area as quickly as possible. Proceed toward your goal in an orderly fashion. Do not pass go, do not collect... well, you know the rest.

So, once all my change is collected, I haul ass into my car and commence to the drive-thru entrance of the car washer. The robo-rep waits patiently as I contract carpel tunnel from the repeated pushing motion of placing $7.00 worth of quarters into that microscopic slot. Yhow.

Finally. I can relax and listen to my tunage while the automatron washes my vehicle and with it the pain and misery I'm feeling from the last five minutes. (which felt more like five years.)

By the time I find myself creeping my way through the man made wind tunnel that is the dryer, I'm feeling quite a bit better.

I move on to the auto-vac, which isn't quite as automatic as I would have liked. There should be a better way. I really had to work, baby! But finally after about twenty minutes and another five dollars worth of quarters, the crumbs, stones, dirt and dust are but a distant memory.

Mission accomplished.

Time to treat me-self to some yunch. I go to my favorite yunch place: Erberts and Gerbets.

Again, thanks to the wonder of technology, I do not have to leave my pristine car and order via squawk box. Hey, no robo-drone here. A young guy I know is working the drive thru. A fragile lil dude who graduated with Hayley. Used live next door. Cool.

"That'll be five-eighty-two," he says.

I give him the money, and a sheepish smile, punctuated with a quiet "Sorry."

His hands don't even make a big enough basket to hold six bucks in quarters.