...and not for the reasons you think. Oh, no. For one reason.
You see, my husband drives a 1994 Ford Escort wagon.
Go ahead. Read that sentence again. Try to stifle the laughter. Then let it all out. It's okay, I've heard it before.
The piece of crap has many problems.
People's Exhibit A: The fabric on the ceiling (yeah, you read that right) is falling down. So he stapled it back to the roof.
People's Exhibit B: Someone backed into the passenger door (and didn't bother to tell us) and now that door won't open very far. This actually isn't too much of a problem, since we only take passengers in this car if we're trying to torture them into telling us a government secret.
People's Exhibit C: Did you read the word "wagon" up there? That should be enough, but sadly, it's not. It's also this funky color stuck somewhere between orange and beige. Sometimes we call it tan, sometimes coral. No one's really sure.
People's Exhibit D: No air conditioning. In case you didn't know, we live in Utah, and it's a desert out here. A hot, dry desert.
People's Exhibit E: It's a 1994. You do the math.
I wanna be a billionaire so freaking bad. Simply so I can buy my husband a new car. That's not so much to ask, right?