By Deborah Corrao / L’Observateur / April 13, 1999

Everybody has a few of what I call “character flaws” for lack of a better term-things that they’re a little bit ashamed of.

I hate to admit it but I am embarrassed to show anyone the inside of my car. You see, I take my life with me wherever I go.My current car is a minivan. My excuse for buying it was that I would beable to drive more people around. Well, two years later, I realize thatthere is no room in the van for passengers. As a matter of fact, now I don’tlike to even open a door and let anyone else peek inside.

I marvel at people who keep the insides of their cars clean (the same way I marvel at people who manage to keep their houses spotless). How dopeople keep their cars clean? Do they carry everything inside with them when they get home? I haven’t figured it out.

My car is more or less a rolling repository for necessities and for treasures I collect along the way.

I use the van to transport Carley back and forth to gymnastics classes but since she is small and I have a passenger side airbag, she rides in the back seat.

That conveniently frees up the passenger seat for a mobile office. It isthere that I maintain (and I use the term loosely) files of unpaid bills, old newspapers, library books, music, briefcase and cell phone.

The two compartments on the front doors are filled with items I might need as I travel. Maps, toothbrush, a glow-in-the-dark “Call Police” sign,expired coupons that I mean to use but forget to take into the store.

Underneath the dashboard are several cubbyholes that serve as storage space for cassette tapes and eyeglasses.

Somewhere on the floor is a drink container which serves as a catchall for things I use most frequently. Ink pens, keys, sunglasses, receipts andmore coupons.

The drink holder which came with the car has been rendered useless. Oneside is broken from someone trying to insert a 32-oz. cup into a 16-oz.hole. The other has literally melted from the effects of a bottle of insectrepellent that leaked in it. Don’t ask.The glove compartment holds the things a police officer might ask me for.

Hopefully, I won’t have to show them.

The back seat is “Carley’s room.” Since many times I have to pick her upstraight from school to get to the gym on time, the back seat is outfitted with a gym bag packed with a variety of leotards, slip-on sandals, warm- up suits and hairbands.

Haphazardly strewn around this area are the clothes she takes off before gym. Jeans, coats, boots and mismatched socks. Underneath the layer ofclothing is another layer of fossilized sticky stuff-remains of after- school snacks or meals eaten on the run. Candy wrappers, drink bottles,petrified French fries and various containers with dried ketchup on them.

Conveniently located on the floor between the middle seat and the back seat are umbrellas, folding chairs, a blanket, a collection of items I meant to take to the thrift store but never got around to.

Someday I may decide to give it a thorough cleaning. But then wherewould I put that stuff? I’d like to be able to store it in my house. Butthat’s another column.

Deborah Corrao is a reporter for L’Observateur

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