My car

Ah, my lady friends—Q especially. Given the way the wheel was getting hard to turn and a green substance was leaking out of it, you told me my car would die someday. Someday, apparently, was yesterday.

Yes, yesterday I went outside and got in the car to go to school. And the car, sadly, did not start. I went back in the house and asked Mr. Borealis if I should stay home to get my car fixed, or if he would be willing to do that for me (seeing as he sits on his widening butt all day anyways). He looked at me, with this misty expression on his face, and asked “How am I supposed fix it?”

Now, generally I don’t like to critique people’s parenting skills, but this man could not tell a washer from a dryer when we moved in together, either. God forbid his parents teach him how to call a tow to a mechanic.

He assures me “he’ll call his dad and they’ll get around to taking care of it,” I take his car and go to my first class, thinking “Great—so the guy who can’t take half an hour to pick out a bathroom vanity and the guy who would take three months to install said vanity are going to ‘get around’ to fixing my car.”

This thought distracted me all through my first class, especially since Mr. Borealis starts back to work Monday and we’ll *need* two cars. So I skipped my second class to come home, where I found Mr. Borealis still in his pj’s on the couch watching television, not having called anyone about my car.

I then exercised some girl power to get some home repairs finished, got his butt off the couch, got his dad’s butt in my garage, and guess what?

My car is now fixed. And even though he doesn’t say so, my husband respects me a lot more.

Amazons Unite!
Alula