No sooner had I posted my grand biodiesel conversion scheme than my husband announced we were buying another car--one that does not run on tater tot grease.
You see, this is what happens when you start innocently discussing ideas for the NEXT car.
The male brain begins spinning out of control. You find classified ads circled next to every toilet in the house. Strangers leave messages about meeting in parking lots across town.
Before you know it you are strapping the booster seat in the back of a '96 Toyota Avalon with 50,000 miles--and thanking God you listened to so much Dave Ramsey together when you were dating.
Husband's happy with it. And so I will be happy, too.