I'm about to Go All Home Alone on Your Board-Erasing Ass

It's Labor Day! That means I don't have class, which is always good. I slept until 1:15. I have to work from 5 to close. Yikes. At least it's time and a half.

Well, a lot has happened lately: New Orleans is more or less obliterated and Rhenquist finally kicked it. If Scalia is the new chief justice, I'll be crying.

I'm out for blood. Some jackass has been erasing the story board in the office. Now, this board has not been erased since we've been in this office, nor was the old office board ever erased. I use this board to write out story ideas and to note who is writing which story for which issue. I had copy schedules for an 8-page tab, Wednesday's issue, and Thursdays issue. While I had some of them transposed onto story assignment sheets, I was coming up to finish it all on Tuesday. Well, no. Because I got up there, and everything was erased, including my board of every sport event in September. And we don't even HAVE an eraser up there. What a determined little prick.

Well, I tried my best to remember everything, but I could only recall two things I'd assigned for Thursday, and I know I had at least 7 on the board (see - it's also used for brainstorming). I then wrote all kinds of notes on the board, including "DO NOT ERASE OR WENDY WILL INJURE YOU!" and a lovely picture of a stick guy coming out of a volcano with the caption "This is your brain on fire. Any questions?"

Well, the next day, it was all erased again. I've been given permission to maim the culprit once he or she is caught, and I'll be catching the bastard this week. I have a plan to ensure the person is caught red-handed, so ha! If this is you, be afraid, as I will personally remove your legs (and any other valuable appendages) with a pair of rusty pliers. And don't you dare ask for morphine, either. I'm not feeling nice right now.

Last Wednesday night, the Sidelines kids had a delicious dinner, followed by Michaela mixing me a really strong drink. That was bad. Very very bad.

I need a new radiator. I went to get my transmission serviced last Wednesday (Manderson was going to pick me up while they worked on my car), but then these guys said they couldn't do it because of the radiator. Apparently, the radiator is leaking, and flushing the transmission involves removing the cap, which would have been all kinds of bad.

I did get my oil changed, though. The guy comes in and was all, "Do you know what kind of car you drive? I know it's a Saturn." NO SHIT, GENIUS. It says "Saturn" all over it - of course you know it's a Saturn. No, I don't know what kind of car I drive. I drive a total fuckin' mystery. It's red - does that count?

Why the hell would he even suggest that I might not know what kind of car I was driving? Do I look like some kind of idiot? Hell, if I'd had some ramps and an oil pan and a wrench and some extra time, I'd have changed the oil myself. This is why I hate going into car places. It's like I'm wearing some sign that only men can see that says, "I have ovaries. I don't know how my car works."

Then he comes in with my air filter.

"This is your air filter."

I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that it needs to be replaced. I don't need to see it, just change it. I mean, I don't need a doctor to show me my liver and say, "This is your liver. Don't drink anymore."

I don't need to see it. Just fix it. Then, for the umpteenth time, he interrupted my reading to bring me out to look at my radiator.

Again, I don't want to see it. I don't care what it looks like. Fix it, and send me on my merry way.

Well, I had to call Manderson and tell him not to come get me because they weren't doing the transmission after all. Bastards. Now I have to get a new radiator this week. The fun never ends.

Neighbor update: The truck's temporary tag is expired. Again.

Currently listening to: Destiny meowing and Buffy chirping
Currently feeling: Like I wish I had a new car