I feel bad for my husband sometimes. I am mean, even in my sleep.

A few mornings ago, I woke up in a fury. In the darkness, I scowled at Gordon. (I scowl a lot. My habit of scowling is the reason that I'm going to get Botox pretty soon.) Why was I scowling, you ask?

Well. Unbeknownst to me, for reasons that I just cannot comprehend, Gordon sold my car. My darling, black Volvo that costs my actual soul every single time I make that car payment. He sold it. And he replaced it with a teal Pontiac Grand Am. I'm not knocking the Grand Am. It's a perfectly fine car that holds it's own in the long line of American cars. But TEAL? Really? It looks something like this:

And then I realized that it was just a dream. Gordon didn't actually sell my darling car (nor would he ever even DREAM of doing such a thing). He didn't really replace it with a teal domestic that inevitably smells bad and has french fries stuck in the cracks and crevices between seats. With great relief, I stopped scowling and went back to sleep.

Poor Gordon.