Tricia Booker Photography

August 29, 2011


I admit I have an affinity for car washes. I love having a clean vehicle, although sometimes you wouldn’t know it from opening the door of the Tahoe. I have an 11-year-old son. Need I say more? Between muddy soccer and golf cleats, constant snacking and, oh yeah, the Jack Russell, the dark blue carpeting (never again will I make that mistake) in the Tahoe looks decidedly murky.

So, when I’m in civilization and it’s convenient—which isn’t all that often—I stop in at the car wash. Today, my trek to Winchester for brake service included a stop at the car wash. In addition to waiting 2 1/2 hours in the dealership, I spent another half hour waiting at the car wash. I suppose vacuuming out all of that dog hair took a while. But I was patient. It’s so rewarding to step into a clean truck, free of dust from the gravel roads, random stinkbugs and flies collected at the barn.

Unfortunately, today’s car wash didn’t quite live up to my expectations. Despite the modern flashing lights showing my expensive exposure to Rain-Ex, the ice cream parlor in the lounge and the cute red benches, the same effort didn’t seem to go into the interior cleaning. I didn’t expect perfection, but I hoped that at least the door jams would be dust-free and the windows clear. Not so. In the end, it didn’t really matter. The weather forecasters called for sunny skies and 0 percent chance of rain, but I drove the last 2 miles home in the rain.




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