My husband and I have spent close to $400 dollars fixing our car. We needed rear brake pads and rotors, which my husband did himself last week.

But then we needed a new brake hose and two new tires. Beyond his expertise.

Oh 2016, you’re already a fickle bitch.

Back a few months ago, my Kia shit the bed. With the help of some old friends (and the mystery person who donated $500 to me) we were able to get a decent car. A 2002 Chrysler Sebring.

Thank you Fran, Terrie, Gary and mystery person. (Please let yourself be known!) Also to my mom and aunt that went to go pick up the car while I was still in the nuthouse.

This is our only mode of transportation, except my bike that I can’t ride anymore. My husband still doesn’t have his license, so I drive the car, which I have grown to love. (Even more than I loved my Kia.)

We decided to get the tires done today, because they were looking rather scary. I don’t think seeing metal on a tire is a good thing. So the old man took the day off from work and I drove (slowly, well more slowly than usual) to Walmart because they have cheap tires and we are poor.

They told us that it would take one and a half hours to do the job.

We walked around a bit, but I don’t last long and I didn’t feel like getting a zippy cart. I got a couple of new pairs of sweatpants. We went back to the auto department and our car was still sitting outside.

They had like 6 nasty, greasy chairs to sit and wait.

old-and-dirty-chairs
We played Name That Stain to kill time.
And wait.

Finally, 3 hours later, they were done. By this point, I was ready to scream and punch someone. I have little to no patience these days for bullshit. My mood most assuredly has to do with how much pain I am in. (Plus, I’m day two into my monthly visitor.)

Trust me, not a good combo. I needed a Vicodin and some chocolate, ASAP.

My husband kept his cool, but told them that we were not paying for the tire rotation because of our long fucking wait. After a little bit of an argument, they agreed to take the charge off of our bill.

My husband offered to take me to lunch to cheer me up, but I was wearing pajama pants and my hair was up in a messy bun. (Interestingly enough, I was the best dressed middle aged woman at Walmart.) I just wanted to go home, so I passed.

Please, 2016. No more whammies. I would get on my knees and beg, but I doubt I would be able to get back up.

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