Last night, my husband wanted me to run by the store and pick up some things before coming home. On the list was a 2 liter of Sprite. Now, I don't normally allow my kids to drink sodas in the house. If we go out somewhere and they want to order one, ok, but no sitting around the house, playing Wii and becoming a human Mountain Dew sponge. But after our trip to Jamaica, I have taken to having a cranberry and vodka after the lights go out, so there's been a bunch of cranberry juice around the house (CLEAN URINARY TRACTS FOR ALL!!!). And Gabby wanted to make herself a mocktail of sorts and this required Sprite. So, yeah. I went and bought it.
ANYWAY, when I got home, I couldn't find the damn thing. I had checked out my own groceries, so I assumed I had left it sitting at the store. This is pretty regular for me--on the off chance that someone makes me go to Wal-Mart (which is the only thing in the known universe that I hate more than beets. Except for maybe the Boston Red Sox.) I ALWAYS forget something on the little turn around thing. I was pretty mad about it, cursing my forgetfulness and stupidity. I promised to go back to the store and get the Sprite.
This morning, I got the kids ready for school. I thought I smelled something weird in Sam's room, but I think that turned out to just be Sam because he's an 8 year old boy, and let me tell you--boys smell. There is this certain je ne sais quoi about a young boy's room, and if you think differently, that yours doesn't, well, you're wrong. Then we got out to the car, and I really smelled it. I asked Gabby if she did, and she said that she didn't really. It was kind of like death. Like something rotting. Like my refrigerator freshman year in college.
I dropped the kids off at school, and continued on my merry way to work. At one point, I turn from the main four lane onto this little country road. As I was turning, I heard this huge KER-CHUNK and something heavy hit the back of my seat and fell to the floorboard.
And that is when I lost my mind.
I spent the rest of the 15 minute car ride, absolutely, completely, and TOTALLY convinced that there was a dead animal in the backseat of my car. I imagined some mutant bat that had managed to squeeze in a window that wasn't shut tightly enough or perhaps a possum that had secretly been in there for a day or so and had only recently died. This horrible mutant creature had been buried under my winter coat, which was laying haphazardly in the backseat, avoiding detection by anyone. I almost convinced myself that it had three heads.
Should I pull over? No, then the THING back there might attack and I would run into the road and be hit by an eighteen wheeler. AND I'M NOT WEARING NICE UNDIES TODAY.
What was the state of The Thing? Either dead or in a coma.
How would I get it out? Someone at work would know.
Are there laws about what to do with the dead carcass of something evil that has been laying in your backseat for days? Someone at work would know.
I, no shit, turned off the radio and sat in quiet consternation for the rest of my trip. I thought about my fate, my life, and how completely convinced I was of the dead thing in my backseat.
And I realized there was no real witty way to write a Facebook status about a dead thing in your car. DRATS.
When I got to work, I got my stuff together (all in the front seat) and got out of the car. I stood beside the car, took a deep breath and counted to three. Then, I lifted up the seat AND....
Yeah, it was that bottle of Sprite.
God, I'm a moron.