The Hell That Is My Life

Florida isn't letting us go without a fight. Yesterday morning, our Minivan of Love died. Yes, the damn thing is only four years old. Yes, it had been thoroughly inspected and given the go-ahead for a 1600 mile trip. Still. After only four hours on the road with us, it decided enough with two kids who talk more than most people breathe, enough with Husband who packs the beer cooler underneath everything else and enough with a wife who won't stop crying. Enough.

Husband and Other Men played Mechanic while wives and children went ahead to an Alumni Picnic. Even though we aren't the alumni. Besides, outdoors in ninety-degree heat surrounded by people I don't know is the perfect place to roast my ass while cursing about our current predicament.

Highlight of the Day: Bent over, arse in the air while searching for nutritious snacks. One kid calls me Cranky Mommy and the other screams about wanting to try barbecue pork products. I say something about needing a goddamn drink when a man sneaks up behind me.

"Are you Katie Robinson?"

I stand up and try to see past blazing sun.

"I grew up with your husband. Wow. He didn't mention your hair. You okay?"

At this point, I hate everyone. Then Husband calls and says the needed car part won't be available until Monday. That means our plans to leave this morning are shot. That means I have to hang out in Melbourne for another day. Or two. Or three.

I know. I feel sorry for our friends, too.

One of the reunion's organizers, with a shirt that says God is Awesome!, thinks car trouble may be a blessing in disguise. I squint at Tammy Faye while she babbles about divine intervention and a possible tragedy averted.

"Go peddle your sunshine sh*t somewhere else," I said. "God and I are no longer on speaking terms."