My car is disgusting

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.