My mom sometimes says things to me that I find hilarious, and she is serious.

Focus is in the shop again, because of a bubble in the tire that turned into a broken wheel bearing that turned into some sort of bolt that SHOULD have been on my wheel hub (?), because someone thoughtfully put it on the drivers side and not on the passenger side, where the bubbled tire was, which is what caused all the crap to begin with.  Top that off with a broken radiator hose and contaminated brake fluid and it adds up to about $1000. Once again, I am trapped in the cycle of being sooooo close to saving up $1000 for my emergency fund, only to have the Focus steal it all away. Of course, I could have chosen NOT to fix it, meaning that the tire could have popped or the wheel could have come off on my 40 mile a day commute to work, but I digress.

My mom calls. I tell her I’m having a shitty day, because of the Focus and other reasons, and she says, “Maybe it’s time to trade it in.”

HAA. Isn’t she funny? Trade in the Focus? Because the girl who has to work not one, but two jobs, eat mostly peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kashi cereal until she wants to throw up, is attempting to plan a wedding, and had to tell her fiance that he needs to move in or she is not going to make it through this year, can just afford a car payment with her awesome credit score due to racking up her credit card to pay for repairs to said Focus. Hilarious, Mom. You’re killing me. Really.

So what did I do? Opened up a NEW credit card with Tire Kingdom! Because if I didn’t, then there would be no Focus to drive to work. And I had to ask a coworker to pick me up in the morning, which I hate, because I know its an inconvenience, but it was either that or have Pete drive from here to Sea World to Lake Mary. He was sweet to offer, but I would rather swallow my pride and ask for help that have him drive 60 miles.

I am having dreams. I had a dream that the wedding was a disaster, and that no one showed up, including the DJ, or any of Pete’s family. Last night I had a dream that I had to work at some sort of Playboy Club to supplement my Harcourt/Red Lobster wages, and that my dad called me a whore when he found out, and made me move back to Miami. I tried to get Peter to take over my Dad’s business. And my house in Miami looked like the trailer they have in Chukoluskee, but bigger. Can you tell that I’m worried about money?