The trip of a lifetime

I don't go looking for weird, trust me, but sometimes, despite my best efforts, it finds me. Which was the reason for my trip to the car wash yesterday.

Let me preface this cautionary tale by saying a trip to the car wash was NOT on my dance card yesterday. Buying a paella pan was, however.

See the connection? No? Good. Because there's none whatsoever.

Buying a paella pan involved a trek to World Market, which is located a ways up North Division -- probably the busiest thoroughfare in the fair city of Bermtopia. So I thought, hey, why not multi-task and stop by The Farm to curse my nonexistent beans and cukes to water the veggies on my way north.

And so it was, on a beautiful Memorial Day weekend Saturday, I found myself traversing the intersection of Madison and 21st when my reverie about paella pans was shattered by a deafening SPLAT! The car's windshield was instantaneously dotted with large, white, oozing ovals of, excuse my French, bird poop. 

The car shook from the impact. I swear to God. It shook.


Fortunately, The Farm was just two blocks away. I pulled along the curb, turned to open the car door to get out and inspect the poop-tacular and nearly passed out. More massive quantities of bird poop coated the driver's side window.  Which was actually about a quarter of the way open. 

I'm lucky I'm still alive.


The collateral damage was quite breathtaking. If you're into bird poop, that is. My little red Honda Civic, affectionately known as the Go-Kart (a term the Numbers 1 and 2 Sons came up with a few years back), was coated in poop. It had been transformed from sporty but trusty mode of transportation into a Dalmatian-like red and white Poop-mobile. 

I would not like to mess with the bird who dropped this particular payload. 


What to do? What to do?


Well, I watered of course. Took a few cell phone shots to document the occasion. And thought about my paella pan.  I wanted that paella pan. And then I remembered the car wash. Conveniently located on  Division not too far from my work. Huzzah!


What I didn't account for was the drive to the car wash. Do you know what it's like to drive through the downtown of Washington's second largest city. . . on one of it's busiest streets. . . in a bright red car. . . coated in bird poop?


Neither did I. Until yesterday.


Smurks. Honks. Averted eyes. Outright laughter. The ever-present panhandlers at Division and 3rd took a convenient break as I sat idling at the stoplight. You name the reaction, I got it in the 10-minute drive to the car wash.


But the car wash gals were the best. The sprayer gal -- a little goth-like but more effervescent than most (is that possible? -- picture funereal black dyed hair, a few strategically placed piercings, ironically uniformed-up in a perky polo shirt and khakis) could only say, "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod" while attacking the offending pockets of poop. 

The money-taker gal, a cool drink of water with a stash of one-dollar bills in her hand, gazed at the Go Kart with much car wash gravitas and simply said, "I hear they like red cars the best."