First, before I forget, my hits have dropped off significantly since the whole “let’s only talk about moving” thing started. BUT, those of you that have stuck around have been so awesome and encouraging and shit in your comments. Seriously. I can’t even hardly tell if you’re rolling your eyes at me and secretly seething “get the fuck OVER IT already”.
So, seriously. You guys are awesome. Bestest readers on the whole wide Internetz. Wooo! Fuck Yeah!
ANYway, back to life in The Transition. (Seriously, you had to know with all that sucking up the subject wasn’t going to CHANGE, right?)
Today’s mission: buy a car.
Actually, today it is my husband’s job to find me a car.
*Amy, pick yourself up off the floor please, that’s rude.*
For those of you who did not immediately fall out of your chairs in a mix of hysteria and shock, allow me to explain the potential disaster I have created for myself.
I? am what you might call a “control freak”. Or an “alpha female”. Or a “pyscho freak ass bitch who doesn’t think anyone in the world can do anything as well as she can. Especially her husband.” TomAto, TomAHto, whatever.
My husband? is what you might call a “retard”. No, seriously. As of last Friday he is no longer allowed to answer the phone at our house if it’s an unknown number because he cannot tell the difference between a “really nice lady who just wants to give us a housewarming present” and a fucking sales lady who is going to spend 5 minutes “testing” your water and 2 hours trying to sell you a fucking water treatment system.
Jared, God love him (and so do I, seriously, I do), doesn’t really make any of the major decisions in our house. His biggest responsibilities at home – aside from taking care of himSELF at least 60% of the time – usually involve garbage and kitty litter. And I still end up scooping kitty litter several times during the week.
And yet, still, he’s shopping for a car today. A car for me.
In his defense (because holy shit I am not really THIS bad of a wife, I swear), he has really stepped it up since we moved. Or rather, since the unpacking was finished. Or, um, since I lost my goddamned mind this weekend and I think he may feel like he’s on some kind of suicide watch or something (and I’m sorry, I use the word “suicide” loosely but not insensitively, but there’s just no other word that goes with “watch” the same).
*ahem* I digress.
Now that we are completely on our own, we both have to step it up. He in the balls and acting like a grown up department, and me in the trust and bitch arenas.
Yesterday he cleaned out the garage, picked up the kids, and managed to have the house looking pretty damn close to the way I left it when I got home.
Today, he car shops. Alone.
It should be fairly simple. All I’m asking for is a fuel efficient luxury car that will allow me to zip around on the freeway, look hot in a traffic jam, and fit two kids and their crap in the backseat. For less than $10,000.
Surely there’s no WAY for him to screw that up. Right?