Proof Positive

My recent hypothesis is that washing one's car is an exercise in futility. I now have proof that I have been correct.

On Friday I dropped off my car to be hand-washed, vacuumed, and armor-alled for the pretty sum of $15. (I refuse to take my vehicle to a car wash or vacuum it out at a self-serve place down here--I don't want to get shot, kidnapped, or robbed.)

We haven't washed the Toyota (or the Honda) since we moved down here, and it was looking rather dusty. That, and it smelled like Henry somehow.

I was so pleased when I picked up my car. It shone, the tires were glossy black, the windows were sparkling clean (no Henry nose smudges), and the interior was freshly vacuumed and gone was that hint of puppy odor.

Joey was equally pleased. We walked around Yoda the Toyota and exclaimed about how nicely he had been washed and how silvery-shiny he was again.

I parked next to our building where there are no trees, just to be safe.

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny. I was up early and headed to Home Despot to buy paint (more on THAT story later...). I went to my car but stopped short in horror as I reached it.

Totally covered in bird poo.

NONE of the cars surrounding it were touched, but the hood of my car was pretty well pelted.

I couldn't wake Joey up to bemoan my misfortune, so I glared at the bird poo, went to Home Despot anyway.

I'll probably never wash my car again.

(P.S. Yes, I know that it's really called "Home Depot" and not "Home Despot", but I don't care.)

(P.S.S. Who invented putting grapes in chicken salad? Grody.)