Wednesday, January 2, 2008

All Road Trips End Here

Our anniversary was lovely, and thank you kindly for all the well-wishes. But you don't want to hear about all the loving and reflecting and What-Does-Marriage-Mean-to-Me crap. What you want to hear about is


"Not us," the DNB corrects as I ponder this during our drive home. "You. God clearly hates you."

I maintain that we are both somehow to blame, because we have yet to take a road trip that didn't somehow involve disaster. Our honeymoon referenced in the last post is, obviously, a case in point. But then there was our ill-fated trip home from Arizona, in which we drove 30 straight hours to avoid an ice storm that seemed to follow us across the country like a cartoon rain cloud. It rained and hailed the ENTIRE 30 HOURS, which seemed impossible, scientifically speaking. Or when we took a wrong turn on Thanksgiving day, causing 18 people to hold their growling stomachs and the food until we found our way.

This time, the check engine light in my new-ish car comes on just as we pull out of the resort parking lot, exhausted from hours of snowmobiling and other married-type activities. It is New Year's Day, which means that everyone is home nursing their hangovers in a very unproductive economic way, and precious few businesses are open. We decide to limp home, car shuddering, and hope for the best.

"God hates you," the DNB reiterates. "Everything you touch breaks."

I don't feel like arguing that obviously ignorant statement. I'm too caught up being jealous of all the other cars on the interstate that are traveling more than 50 mph. We're even being passed by grandparents in white Cadillacs, which is truly, especially humiliating.

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