My wife is, um, fastidious about certain things - like the inside of her car.

Shoot, like the inside of any car. She can't abide crumbs on the seats, floor mats or consoles.

Now these are just crumbs, mind you. They probably don't contain the Ebola virus.

No matter: I'm not permitted to munch so much as a donut within the confines of her Subaru Outback.

So guess what her opinions are about my car?

Look, I'm a guy. My birthright is coffee stains and the specks on the front of my shirt aren't dandruff. Heck, half of my meals are taken behind the wheel.

With predictable results. I single-handedly keep the SuperVac at the car wash in business.

But the SuperVac can't quite keep up, so my upholstery always looks like the Eddy's Bakery after an earthquake.

What's worse, I have bad shocks and one of those dashboard-mounted drink carriers, so every time I drive over a bump, half of my 20-ounce-skinny-half-caf-caramel-macchiato-with-medium-foam spews all over the car's interior and the lap of my trousers.

Last year, the vehicle's radio/CD player/clock ceased to function. Then the dashboard heater/AC vent seized up. I took the rig to a mechanic, who said the instruments were glued shut by caramelized sugar, butter and milk.

He charged me 50 bucks and sent me home with an old toothbrush, with which my stepdaughter Geneva painstakingly separated all the moving parts.

The upshot is that my wife won't abide my ride. At all.

Victoria car pools to work, and recently her vehicle needed to go into the shop. It was her week to drive, so I offered to swap cars with her for the day.

"And make Dianne (her car-pool partner) ride in that?" she gasped as all the color drained from her face.

My spouse's aversion to my vehicle leads to no end of hassles. If she goes somewhere and needs a ride, I have to drive home, park my rig and borrow Geneva's car to go collect Victoria.

Last time that happened, I whined enough that she agreed to reconsider her zero-tolerance policy toward my jalopy.

"I'll ride in it on one condition," she said. "You have to get it detailed."

Next morning, I drove to a custom car wash and did just that. It took hours, but when they were finished the interior looked like Donald Trump's office.

I'd been gone a long time, and when I pulled into the driveway Victoria was standing on the sidewalk with her arms crossed. "Check it out!" I chirped.

She gingerly opened the passenger-side door, stuck her head inside and recoiled in horror.

"What?" I cried.

"Like I said," she replied, "I'll ride in this thing if you get it detailed ... and fumigated."

"What?" I repeated.

Victoria strode around the car, wrapped her arms around me and looked me straight in the eye.

"Darlin'," she said, "these tears in my eyes aren't because I missed you."

Steve Crump may be reached at 735-3223 or scrump@magicvalley.com.