Today is acting like it wants to be a Monday, and I’ll have no part of that. It started out well enough, but then I ventured from my safe little home into the land of stupidity and humanity. (Redundant, eh?) Within minutes, I had a rock hit my windshield and leave a quarter-sized “bullet hole” right in my view. Dammit, dammit, dammit. But since it’s usually pretty easy to get the windshield-fixer-people to bring one of those mobile units to where you work, I relaxed, took a chill pill, and went inside to call the insurance company. You know. Those good neighbors? The ones that waive the deductible on rock pecks?

Um, that would be no. Like that silly credit card commercial featuring David Spade, the “no’s” were a-flying. Seems January 15 was the cutoff date. After that date, the insurance company is no longer waiving the deductible. Please tell me you are following along. The only thing worse than going through this crazy experience is having to explain the minute details to someone. What this meant to me was instead of calling just any windshield company (because I wasn’t paying), I spent 30 minutes calling around for the cheapest price. Because, well, you know. My money is much more important than someone else’s.

I find a guy. He says he’s at one of those auto spa’s, just “pull ‘er in.” Easy enough, right? I drive up there and start looking for him. “I’ll be in da blue shirt.” Um, okay. The car wash folks run up to me, credit card machine in hand. “I don’t need service today. I just need to pull around to where the windshield guy is.” There was no way through, other than through one of their bays. Guy stops me, says, “I’ll have to pull your car through the bay.” Fine. Go right ahead. He pulls smack into the middle of the bay and kills the engine. Here come five more guys, smiling and holding out their hands for my credit card. Dudes. You’re not washing my car. “Excuse me, but I need to go to the back, please, for the guy to FIX MY WINDSHIELD???? Do you understand this?” Um, oh, ok. Another guy gets in the car and pulls it the rest of the way through. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t think he knew what was going on.”

Why am I not surprised?

Back at work. Everyone that has ever known me, or done business with my division, or likes me, or dislikes me, has called and left a message. Those that couldn’t get through have sent long, detailed e-mails. And then I got another “Swiffer kills family pet” e-mail. What’s next? The abduction of pretty little Penny Brown? I heat up my Lean Cuisine pizza, swear to myself I WILL. NOT. BITE. INTO. IT. TOO. SOON. AND. BURN. MY. MOUTH. AGAIN. Because ohmygod have I not learned my lesson yet?

Gotta run, guys. I have to get some ice. Seems the top of my mouth is blistered.