Today, the historian and I were all over creation. To wit:
1. His office to pick up more files about the socialists in Utah.
2. Les Madeleines, for Saturday pastries.
3. Chad's, to pick up vegetables (Kale, spring mix, chard, carrots, plus farm eggs; alas, no collards or parsnips!)
4. Jr. Jazz b-ball game (we missed the tragic first quarter, where they got way behind, so that even playing even meant they lost by, well, a lot)
5. the car wash.
At the car wash, we chose the bay where the lady with the white SUV was just starting--we figured, one car, then it'll be our turn. The historian's car wash philosophy is, rinse off the grit and salt periodically. (My car wash philosophy is more geological, as in geological time, as in, this car will get dirty as soon as I wash it, and dirt is really the natural state of affairs, so why bother? This is why the historian is in charge of pretty much all car washing at our house.)
As it turned out, the lady with the white SUV had what amounted to a psychological disorder with regard to her car. Basically, she wanted to wash it, and wash it, and wash it, and then spank its shiny pink bottom (metaphorically speaking). I said to the historian, "she's gonna need to bag it and carry it home, otherwise it will just get dirty." (see my car wash philosophy above)
We watched helplessly, but with some amusement too, as the cars came and went, streaming almost-frozen car wash water from their shiny exteriors, while our white SUV lady kept scrubbing, and scrubbing, and scrubbing. Her car was fluffy with fluffy pink soap suds. Then the rinsing, which was impressively thorough.
"She won't wax, though, will she?" I wondered, hopefully, "because it's too cold, right?"
Then the waxing.
We managed to rinse our car off lickety-split, after the waiting. Here's what car washing looks like when the historian does it and you, car wash slacker, are on the inside: