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A Series of Unfortunate Message #1 - Closet Buffyholic. Meh, she didn't pick up when I called baaaaack… Message #2 – one of the supervisors at Spiffy!Hotel. “Hey Claris, it's T…it's 6:30 & you were supposed to be here at 6…I know you're comin' in, so we'll see you when you get here…” Oh fuck. Call Spiffy!Hotel. “This is Casey.” “Casey, did you forget to tell T something?” “Uh.. Claris?…I may have…” “Something like…me calling out of work five hours ago?” “Oh. Riiiiight.” ::sigh:: “Could you, ya know, go do that, since T left a message asking where I was? Thaaaaaank yyooooooouuu…” And that, my friends, was my Saturday – car not broken, trip to Wal Mart, new car battery, car now broken, car towed, nice long tow truck ride back to my neighborhood, discovering that I know way more about my car's mechanics that I ever thought I did, and odd ride home complete with free prediction about the future done Hindu style, rather than the supposedly lesser gypsy method. I'm not sure who it was that decided every so often my life should have a day which borrows events from plotlines belonging in the independent film industry, but if I find out who you are, I'm gonna beat the shit out of you. That's a promise. ::sigh:: Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take the rest of my red wine, go sit on my porch, and talk to my neighbors while my dog runs around like an idiot & the Garden State CD plays in the background. 'cause in an indie film, that's how things would end, so let's pan out & fade to black. Black, like my fuel filter that wasn't fucking changed. But I'm not bitter. Not a't'all. Roll credits. Note: it turns out that the fuel filter for my car is a special order part that most places don't stock – so the most likely scenario is that the guys at the last place realized this after they had taken my money & just didn't want to admit that. However, California state law allows you to ask to see the old parts, so from now on, that's what I'll be doing. ~ Claris |
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