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Who would have thought that someone asking for a ride to the car repair shop (which is on my home) could instill such a sense of panic?! The problem isn’t the giving of the ride. It’s my ride. And the fact that it is (and probably always will be) a freaking pig sty. I refuse to take full credit for that though. Jeff takes my car to work a lot, especially right now – we need to get the brakes fixed on his. Whenever I do actually clean up the mess I can usually manage to keep it pretty decent. Until Jeff tosses something on the floor. Then it’s free reign. Hell, there’s already crap down there, why not add to it? So today I had a mini-panic. “Oh no! She’s going to know how disgusting I can be!” I totally snuck out of there about 10 minutes early, tossed all the soda bottles and random other garbage onto the floor in the back of the car, and covered it with the blanket we keep in there for Dale.
Crisis Averted. Thanks to my quick thinking. 
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