I Hate our Car

Ever have one of those days where you're so tired you feel like this?:

So you're all crabby and therefore people piss the hell out of you and you want to do this to them:

Yeah, I'm there.

I would preface this by saying that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but that would involve actually waking up, meaning that I fell asleep in the first place, and I don't really think that happened last night. Nora was up every cotton'-pickin' (always wanted to use that phrase) hour. Then she decided that 3:45 am is just a lovely time of day to wake up and say "Hello world". She's done this for the past four nights. I'm wiped out.

We decided that it's time to get a minivan. We thought it would be a good day to go to the dealer, suck it up, plop some change down, and dive into middle age. Well, as we were leaving, we realized the dealer would probably want the title to the Santa Fe. No problem...it's gotta be in the file cabinet, right? No. Just no. As Nora screamed in her carseat and Tate attempted to start the car and back out of the driveway, we tore the house apart looking for the elusive title. Finally we decided enough time was wasted and agreed to just go buy a copy of the title. I hate our car. I swore it was laughing at us.

We motor over to De Pere city hall, because for some reason Eric thought that was where we were supposed to go. I thought he was nuts, but wasn't going to say anything because at that time he had the personality of a constipated gorilla. Little crabby. I hate our car. I swear it was injecting Eric with bad thoughts about his lovely wife and children.

After getting laughed at at City Hall, we went to the DMV and prepared ourselves for that certain level of hell that can only come by bringing two kids to a place where all there is to do is sit. For like 7 hours. We sat on pins and needles waiting for that "ding" and just praying our number would come up soon. Does 184 hours qualify as soon? Then we almost missed it because I was in the bathroom changing Nora's blowout diaper (why do they ALWAYS blowout in public?) and Eric was chasing Tate away from the little picture-taking station.

We finally got called up, gave the lady our info and waited. And here is a little synopsis of what happened:

Lady: "We don't have a record of any Hyundai for you in Wisconsin."
Us: "...guh?"
Me, lamely: "But we LIVE here!"
Lady's eyes, looking at me witheringly: "No shit, dumbass"
Lady: "Well, your car title is still filed in Florida. Is that where you bought the car?"
Eric: "I kinda thought the title just...followed us around."
Lady, as she realizes we're the customers she's going to be laughing about with her friends at the bar tonight: "Uh...no. The title does not just follow you around."
Eric: "Well, I guess you would know better than us."
Lady: "Yup."

Defeated, we left the den of maleficence cleverly disguised as the DMV and went home in silence. No new car today. Another week of driving around in my stupid evil car that I hate. A minivan opens its doors for you. The Santa Fe makes you actully use your own ARM. A minivan will magically stay clean forever. The Santa Fe is full of crumbled up pretzels, a dirty diaper wipe, spilled pop, and sticky little handprints all over the outside and a little noseprint on the back window. The minivan wil magically repel all such things.

After we got home I decided to run out and get coffee before Eric had to leave for work. I was running on 2 minutes of sleep and a Cheerio after all. I backed out of our driveway and ran over our garbage can, which apparently was in cahoots with the car to make my life a living hell.

I hate our garbage can.