Dirty.

Until yesterday, my car had not been cleaned since Liz and Eleanor decided to throw a couple quarters in a self-serve car wash and cleanse its exterior of about 2,000 miles worth of American soil before rolling into Las Vegas. That was in January. Until yesterday, my poor Civic had about five months worth of Los Angeles filth caked on it. 

At the car wash, I learned another new thing about L.A. In Massachusetts, drive through car washes involve robots. Here, there are Mexicans instead. Everything else is the same - car in neutral, little assembly line of water and soap and sponges - except at every station a team of little men attack the car. That was a surprise. Bottom line, they do a phenomenal job and my reason for hesitating to have my car washed for all these months is coming into play: I don't want it to get dirty again. I really hate those stupid car covers that jerks who only love their vehicles tuck them under every night, but I'm sorry to say that I'm starting to see the logistics behind them. 

It is very hot here. I'm starting to get over that Don't Waste A Beautiful Day Guilt that  I acquired over 22 years in New England. It's perfectly fine and necessary to stay inside and watch TV on DVD when the alternative is dying of heatstroke and having your shoes melt to the pavement.