Disclaimer: This is long as fuck. But mildly entertaining. And a little depressing. Have fun.

Today is my anniversary (thank you, Mom, for reminding me of the exact date). Would have been 14 years but we know the end of that love story. Hard to believe that 4 years ago today, I was in Durango, Colorado with my husband high-fiving that we made it 10 years and ugly crying that 10 years was all we got. I know, you’re all sick of hearing it. The world moves on, maybe I’m not supposed to have feelings about it anymore, maybe I’m not supposed to talk about it anymore, but here I am, having the feelings and doing the talkings. Anyway, cheers to you babe, Happy Anniversary. If you wanna say hi, I’ll be in my room ugly crying for a little bit. Shhh, don’t tell the masses, apparently I’m supposed to be over it.

Moving on, I just got back from another little vacation. Yes, I vacate a lot. It’s healing to get the fuck out of dodge and see what else is going on in other parts of this more than a little fucked country. Our journey started, quite successfully, in Atlanta. The highlights: we felt safe the entire time, we did not have to walk across, over, under, perpendicular to any highways, we saw a great Braves vs. Brewers game where offense was being served up strong and Ronald Acuna Jr. broke some kind of base stealing record or some such shit that I wasn’t really focused on, I drove downtown and SUCCESSFULLY parallel parked for the FIRST TIME EVER (I know, that’s ridiculous, I’m almost 41 and should know how to parallel park but fuck you, I couldn’t until right now) and sure I have the world’s best back up camera and yes, maybe I was a little more in the road than I should have been, but I fucking did it, and I rode that high for quite a few hours, maybe like 24ish of them. The lows: traffic is a nightmare in Atlanta and children (not mine, well, sometimes mine) fucking suck. We sat in front of this family of 236 (4 adults, 232 children under the age of 13 but above the age of 7) and they were a little out of control. Marky Mark, his brothers and maybe even the funky bunch, I don’t know, can’t cook for shit. We tried Wahlburgers. It was not good. Well, the beer was good but the food tasted like nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Maybe that’s why Marky Mark looks so good and I look like, well, not all that good. But, all in all, quite a success.

Our next stop was Bradenton, FL to drop Jack off at baseball camp. No complaints there except the hotel pool was smaller than my shower and rooftop located next to a bar, which I had no qualms about, but my kids felt a little uncomfortable when they attempted a night swim. But the views were gorgeous, the traffic was minimal and I successfully dumped Jack at camp for the week. It was down to just Colt, my mom and me and we were super pumped to be headed to LEGOLAND for our next adventure. It was fine, smaller than I expected, maybe a little dated and dirty which is odd seeing as how it’s only 12 years old but there were absolutely no lines and Colt had a great time. Until 2 pm. Then he was ready to go. I didn’t even get any fucking ice cream. But it was all about Colt and so I tried to be compassionate and understanding and remember that it was not my theme park day, it was his, and we didn’t get in one single fight. Which is a win for us.

More success. Winning at vacationing. We move on to Ruskin, FL which has this cute little resort community on the Tampa Bay with a couple restaurants, a tiki bar, a private beach, a couple pools. We rented a townhouse in this area, 5 stars on VRBO. And it was fine if you like dust bunnies on the ceiling, air conditioning that is controlled by the owners in Orlando, toilets that never stop running and water that smells like dog shit that’s been baking in the sun for a few hours. We made the best of it, though. The Bay smells much like the tap water in our townhouse but Colt built sandcastles in the sand to his little heart’s content, we had the pool all to ourselves, we adventured to the aquarium (where Colt lost interest in approximately 7 minutes), we rested, we relaxed, we Lego’d (ok, I didn’t Lego, but Colt and my mom did). We very sadly skipped out on the airboat gator tour much to my dismay because Colt dubbed it too noisy for his little baby ears even though they give you earmuff headphone thingies (official name) but, again, I was trying to make this trip all about Colt and I think I did a decent job of keeping my bratty attitude in check. (It should be noted that my parents dubbed me the vacation nazi (are we allowed to say nazi anymore???) years ago because I do not like to sit still on vacation, I like to go and see and always have a plan for what’s happening next and very out of character for me, I like be in charge on vacation.)

So everything is going swimmingly (ha because we’re at the beach and pool, how punny). Colt and Mimi are building sandcastles in the sand, I’m working on my tan because Lord knows, I don’t do that enough (that’s a joke, working on my tan is kinda my jam) when Colt decides he’s sick of smelling the Bay, lets go to the pool (side note – the pool didn’t smell much better as it was filled with the same swamp water running through the pipes of our rental (and yes, I know it’s well water, I’m not that stupid, I’m just grateful my home does not utilize well water, maybe you get used to, maybe you always smell like dog shit, I don’t know). And as we’re loading up the car, I notice a screw in my rear passenger tire. Because of course there’s a screw in my rear passenger tire. I drive Colt and Mimi over the pool and get down to the business of finding somewhere to get my tire patched, which I have really great experience with as last summer I got really used to screws and nails in my tires (I just personally wasn’t getting screwed or nailed hey oh!). I found a place. I drove to the place. They super hated me. I stood awkwardly outside in the Florida 109 degree heat while they did their tire magic and 20 minutes later I was back at the pool, shotgunning a High Noon and commending myself on another kick ass Kellie did it all by herself again milestone.

We spent our last day without Jack doing exactly what I wanted to do because I couldn’t watch Colt build legos anymore. It was Mama day. Went to Bradenton Beach, soaked up the sun, floated in the most beautiful water I’ve seen in this country, enjoyed a beer at a local Cantina, played tourist in a little tourist trap store where Colt collected more junk for his ever growing junk collection. It was a most perfect day. Jack called to ask me to pick him up from camp a day early since the baseball part was over and he had no interest in spending the day at the pool because his newfound friends were leaving. So we decided to pick him up early Saturday morning and start our venture home.

We’re cruising along, we’ve made it Bumfuck, GA (that’s not it’s real name in case you were gonna try to google that) with plans to get to Florence, SC, get some rest and continue our final few hours home on Sunday. Ha. Best laid plans. I’m going 80+ ish in the fast lane, I-95 when my Low Tire Pressure flashes on my screen, same tire I just had patched and my initial thought is shit, the patch has failed. We’re on a bridge, I’ve not alerted any passengers to any issues, but start maneuvering my way right with the intention of pulling over when what sounds like a fucking helicopter landing on my car alerts my mom to which she responds “is there an airplane landing on us?” to which I reply “no, my tire is flat” and then mass chaos ensues. We smell the burning rubber, my mom, God bless her, gets a little panicky, I think I yelled at her (sorry, mom) I’m driving on rim, smoke is engulfing us, I’m battling the steering wheel trying to make it to the shoulder, Colt is scared, teenager is oblivious. I somehow manage to make it to the shoulder (barely) without causing any kind of wreck or damaging any humans. I jump into action, not even hesitating, as my mom gets out of the car to see what in the actual fuck. I call Onstar, request roadside assistance (side note – I’m calm but panicked and this damn bitch is asking the most ridiculous questions ever (maybe they were relevant, my brain is a little fuzzy) and in the slowest manner possible. Am I safe? No bitch, my tired is shredded, my rim is fucked, I’m barely pulled off I-95 in the middle of nowhere (that’s an exaggeration, I could see an exit about 1/2 mile up with no tell motels and a gas station), I’ve got 2 kids and a panicking Mimi and I don’t know what the fuck to do. No I’m not safe. I didn’t say any of that of course. She does whatever it is she does (aside from speaking super slowly and thanking me every time I answer a question and asking irrelevant questions) and requests a wrecker, tells me to sit tight, I will receive a text that will give me my approximate wait time. 2 fucking hours. That’s how long it will take for a tow truck to get to me. Because it’s coming from Florida. They are the only service that answered the call. 2 fucking hours we have to sit barely pulled off of I-95, low on fuel, high on anxiety.

I decide to contact my insurance company (GEICO for ya money money money) and see if they could get someone to us in a more timely manner. I shit you not, the girl told me she would find someone, calls me back 3.2 minutes later and says she can’t find anyone but please send my towing invoice to them for reimbursement. Now that’s what I call service (insert eye roll here). So, we sit, and we wait, and a van almost ran into us but thankfully didn’t. And we sit, and we wait some more. And maybe I balled my eyes like a little bitch baby and maybe I had the world’s largest pity party and maybe hearing all the things I had to be grateful for was not what I wanted to hear in that moment. But by the grace of God, the tow truck pulls up behind us about 45 minutes into our wait. And silly old me, I somehow thought it was the one from Florida and perhaps the GPS mechanism tracking thingy was wrong. I’m so pretty sometimes. But of course it wasn’t. It was an angel sent from God in the form of a 350 pound black man named Josh that just saw us sitting there and thought he could help. My mom almost sent him away, thinking we had to wait for the other fella but I said no way, fuck that, this man if offering to help and we are taking it.

Now the situation did not look good. A bracket had broken loose from the fender, punctured the cloth fender cover thingamajig and ultimately pierced my tire. We weren’t sure if the spare could even be put on and nothing was open in Bumfuck, GA until Monday for any necessary repairs. But my angel, Josh, called his wrecker co-worker friend, towed us (and gave us a ride) to the closest gas station and they went to work on changing my tire. They took all my luggage out of my car, put the spare on, somehow reattached whatever fucking piece of shit bracket had come loose, reloaded my luggage and even made us laugh on multiple occasions all in a matter of 30 minutes. We made it to a hotel another 40 miles up the road and called it a night.

It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. It could have been so much worse. We were definitely fortunate for the minimal damage to my car and the 0 damage to any humans. But that didn’t matter. I broke that night. I cried and I cried and I cried. Kind of like I’m doing as I’m writing this. (Side note – while the car shit is going down, I get a text from my brother who is dog sitting for me that the puppy decided to eat my couch while he was at work, had been an angel all week and on the last day, eats the couch) I don’t like to complain, I pride myself on my strength, but fuck is this life hard. More shit has gone wrong in the last 5 years, since learning my husband was dying, than has gone wrong in my entire life prior to that. And I know no one wants to hear it. We live in a world of dying sympathy and empathy and everyone’s life is hard. I know all the things. I know what I have to be grateful for. I know I’m more fortunate than not. But sometimes, I just need to break. And cry. And throw things. And sometimes I need a sympathetic ear to listen and some arms to hug me and a little goddamn Kellie, what more can go wrong? But, alas, that’s not really the case.

We made it home the next day on the little tire that could. My kids are suffering from a little bit of PTSD, freaking the fuck out every time the texture in the road changes and the road noise gets a little louder. But hey, what’s one more mental trauma? We’re becoming pretty good at dealing with mental trauma. That which does not kill us only makes us stronger. And more cynical. But ultimately more hilarious. So there’s a win.

A year ago on this day, a tree limb went through my back glass and shattered everywhere. I swear, I can’t make this shit up. Welcome to my circus. Happy Anniversary to me. I bought myself a new couch. And a giant FUCCCCKKKKKKK to round it all out.