CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: THE PIGGY BANK ON WHEELS IS A DRIVING FORCE

My friend Linda calls my car a piggy bank on wheels.

Every time she gets in, she makes a great display of picking change up off the seat or the dashboard or the floor mats and putting it into the ashtray.

"When the rent's due, do you just clean out your car?" she asked once.

It wasn't all my fault. I'd been to the laundromat that week. That also explained all the dryer sheets in the back seat.

I think a lot of people have an ashtray account. Since smoking has nearly surpassed homicide as a social no-no, the ashtray doesn't get much of a workout unless it's used as a coin receptacle.

It's so convenient. You go to Burger Hut, place your order, get your food, get your change and dump it in the ashtray instead of rummaging for your wallet.

Then the next time you go through the drive-through (or, God forbid, go somewhere with parking meters) the change is right there.

Since I tend to toss my purse into the car, things tend to fly out. Change. Earrings. Lipstick.

Luckily, the upholstery's been Scotch Guarded.

I have been known to rummage through the ashtray (and the floor mats and the little doohickey between the bucket seats that everyone sticks their cassette tapes in) for change in the day or two preceding payday.

It's kind of pathetic that the ashtray account can cover most of my day-to-day financial transactions.

On the other hand, after putting much of my income into the car, it's nice to know that I can actually get money out of it.

Even if it's only for a soda.

The ashtray's handy for earrings, too. I wear clips, and after a long day at the office, my earlobes are really tired. At the end of the week, though, the ashtray lid won't close.

The '80s are over. I should buy smaller earrings.

My friend Gary grumbles that cars haven't been the same since women (or as Gary pronounces it, "WIM-min!") were acknowledged as a fiscal presence in the marketplace.

Power steering, power brakes, vanity mirrors. New colors. Not that I'd ever actually buy a car in a color called "Wild Orchid," but there's no accounting for taste.

If auto makers really wanted to win women over, they'd forget the lighted makeup mirrors and invent something really helpful: A place to put the purse.

The trunk is safe, but it's too inconvenient. If you put it on the passenger's seat, you're risking being mugged. If you put it on the floor behind the driver's seat, it's too hard to reach. You need a purse receptacle that's easily reached and easily opened for those times when the ashtray account won't work.

The people at Tupperware (or Rubbermaid; I'm not picky) should work on this.

Maybe a drawer that slides out from the driver's seat. Or a closed receptacle in the doohickey between the bucket seats.

There are some vehicle-oriented gadgets out there I don't like, particularly curling irons and electric razors which can be plugged into the cigarette lighter.

I am not especially reassured by the fact that the driver in front of me is coordinated enough to curl her hair (or shave his chin) while driving.

Eating in a car is one thing. Grooming is a distraction. For everybody. Who doesn't stare at a woman putting on mascara while she's doing 60 mph on the interstate?

If I had to pick the one accessory I'd really want for my car, though, it would be a chauffeur.

Home, James. And don't spare the horses.

~Peggy O'Farrell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.