It isn’t what it sounds like. I didn’t actually lose a Carassius auratus auratus in the car. It isn’t like the time the lobsters got free and headed for liberty under the seats. We could hear them shuffling around under there while we sped for the house. I held my feet up, sure one was going to get me. The Spouse had to keep his foot on the gas, his Achilles tendon vulnerable to lobster attack.
Today I lost a tasty, cheddar cheese flavored multigrain Goldfish™. I like to buy them in the 30 ounce milk carton. Probably there are about a million in there. 75,000 servings of crunchy saltliness. And as we were driving along in the new all-black nearly perfect Pathfinder, one of them flopped its way out of the carton and disappeared in the crack between the seat and the console.
The Spouse didn’t turn his head but I could feel his awareness of the escape.
I casually reached two fingers down into the crevice where I could see the fish stranded on a small ledge. Nothing. I peered down into the crevice. Gone. Disappeared into the underseat ether.
Uh oh, I said. The spouse laughed. Not like a hah-hah laugh, but an oh-great kind of laugh. He claims not to care too much but I sort of doubt him.
I doubt him so much that I debated whether or not to tell him about the other two escapees who hid under my leg for a few hours. Maybe he won’t notice the Goldfish shaped oil smootzes on my seat.
This is all part of the “break in” process of new car ownership. The wife’s car is 2 years old and I am still not allowed to start supper until we get home with some takeout from Rib City.
Rib City? I’m in. Even at risk of losing new car smell.