MyThreeDaughters

Last night, we were driving to Moe’s Southwestern Grill, yet another commercial interest failing to leverage the free pub I’m just now giving it.
Wife said, “Something in this car stinks, and I can’t find it.”
“Yeah, it fells bad in here,” almost-4-year-old said, trading out the “sm” for an “f” as she does.
“I don’t smell anything,” I said, being the traditionally olfactory-deficient guy. “What’s it smell like?”
I started thinking about the time we found an orange and green orb tucked behind the seat track, then held it up trying to figure out what it was. It was about the size of a golf ball, and had begun growing mold spores. We finally concluded it must’ve, at one time long, long ago, been a tangerine. It looked a little like the one in the photo above.
It looked a lot like Nerf tangerine. We felt lucky that one of the girls hadn’t found it, bitten into it and gone off on some sort of psychedelic SUV ride.
Who knows how many half-eaten bananas have done prison-length sentences on the car floor, then there was the bloated organic Horizon milk I found in a rear crevice once. Man, that particular one was <i>really</i> organic by then.
“I just can’t figure it out,” my wife said. “It smells sour, like trash.”
“I don’t know, babe,” I said, “I’m just not getting anything.”
We turn left.
“There is a bag of trash back there,” wife said, “but I don’t think that’s it. I stuck my face in it, and it didn’t smell.”
Her nostrils are clearly singed from six years of changing diapers, I thought.
So we went into Moe’s (two mentions, no ads), ate, came back out and drove home.
We went in the house.
We left the trash bag in the car.
Where today it cooks in the southern summer sun.