Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.

I’d been on the road a lot.

My wife accused me of living in my car.

There are days when such words have an endearing ring.

No lawn to mow, no property taxes to pay, no water in the basement.

I talked to a guy who put a big bow on his wife’s old car and gave it to her for her birthday. The bow was new, but she wasn’t pleased.

He might be living in his car.

My wife isn’t surprised. I’m a road-warrior who is keen on my work and I’m all kinds of an idiot. When I carried her over the threshold. I was strong. She weighed little. Still, I managed to hit my bride’s head on the doorframe. She took that as a warning.

Back when I searched behind sofa cushions to find enough money to buy a bale of floss and I was just starting to lead trips and speak at things hither and yon, I’d try to get to places a day early to check things out. No hotel room had been booked for me until the next day, so I’d sleep in my pickup truck. You don’t need an MBA to sleep in a truck. A fool and his sound judgment were never together in the first place. I was young and it didn’t hurt me any, even though I’d wake up thinking I was in a rented Dodge Neon with one knee on the dash and the other knee on the roof. I didn’t literally live in my pickup. I know there are people who do. I wish they didn’t have to. People who sleep in vans probably look down upon pickup sleepers.

That reminds me of Matt Foley. Many of you know who Matt was. He was a character from “Saturday Night Live,” a motivational speaker played by Chris Farley. Foley was bad at his job. He was abrasive, cynical, negative and hapless. Foley’s trademark was warning his audience that they could end up being like him — 35 years old, divorced three times and living in a van down by the river. Though his speeches always backfired, the results were desirable. Those in the audience wanted to be nothing like Matt Foley. He served as a bad example.

Sleeping in a car when the sun comes up can be like snoozing in an oven. A heated exchange with the sun made it difficult for me to be the best version of myself, but showering in icy cold water at a campground is invigorating.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Why didn’t you crack the windows open?”

Ha! You rank amateur. That’s the first place mosquitoes look.

My car doesn’t often act as my bedroom. Maybe a short nap in the shade after a long drive. Now it’s more of a living room.

In my merry little car, I go wheeling near and far. I drive along listening to my shows. My mother had her shows. Hers were two TV soap operas. One was a must-see TV and the other was good to see. My shows are radio shows. Those shows and books on tape make the miles slide by.

I watch for idiots. There are idiots on the road. I watched a state patrol car turn at a stop sign without signal or stop. There were no lights, sirens or hurry. I look up to those fine officers. If one of my heroes can be an idiot, I guess that means we each get a turn.

My car may appear as if I’m living in it because I have to have things in a car. George Carlin said, “Everybody’s gotta have a little place for their stuff. That’s all life is about. Trying to find a place for your stuff.” A car is a place for stuff. It goes without saying that I need a fully equipped tool chest — pliers, screwdriver, duct tape and bandages. I need the usual things — pen, notebook, gloves, flashlight, toaster, bathroom scale, kitchen sink and a box of facial tissue. What kind of Neanderthal would hit the road without a box of facial tissue? You don’t want to sneeze on the steering wheel. I meander a lot during my travels, so I suppose I’m a Meanderthal, but I have a box of facial tissue. I need a few paper towels. Spills happen in the best of cars.

A car is like adding a room onto the house. One with brakes.

It’s another neutral corner.