I drive around in a used 1998 Toyota Camry. It ain’t pretty. Last week I scraped the front right fender on our narrow garage opening. Its white exterior is plastered with bird poo. And the interior–whoa, mama. The floor is crusted with bits of pretzel, animal cookie and curled-up art projects. The back seat is sticky. Somewhere in the darkness are a cellphone, sunglasses, tax forms, almost empty juice boxes, MapQuest directions to an interview I drove to in Maplewood, pens, and at least one piece of cheese.
I don’t need to pimp my ride. I’ve already mommed it. Jealous? Want help? Here you go.
I don’t usually commute to work in this stinkmobile. But when I do, I park it in a garage near my office in midtown Manhattan. I love pulling up behind the investment bankers in their immaculate Jags and spotless Beemer convertibles. My muffler is shot, too, so I sound like a tractor. When the men step out, they reach in and shake out their hand-cut suit jackets before heading off to the office. Me, I shake off the Cheerios stuck to my somewhat clean Top Shop jeans.
Such is my life. And you know what? I don’t care. I’d rather be a working mom than a pimp.