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30 September 98 Wednesday

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I did accomplish some things today, but, overall, it was not a good day. I went and got the necessary information about the computer system for the library. I did my bills. I began working out Peter's marketing strategy for the Gift and Fruit Baskets he's going to be offering for the holiday season-- I even got the Halloween Links page done. But I didn't sleep well last night, and I have a headache-- As I was leaving Ma's house tonight, the kid downstairs snuck his car up behind me without lights on-- he wanted to pull into the space-- and I backed into him, pushing in the headlight. Rats. The light still worked fine, and the only real damage was that the grill bent and a 2 inch piece (which doesn't even show) broke off, and the plastic cowl that holds the headlight in place broke leaving the light attached only by one mount so it wobbles. Rats. The kid's mom-- it's her car-- told me she was taking it in to the garage on Saturday, anyway. I told her to have it fixed and let me know what it cost. It'd be a piece of cake to fix it, you know, but, naturally, neither son nor mother has the least mechanical inclination-- what's the world coming to when boys don't know doodly-poop about fixing cars, by the way? And since when does a woman of my own generation get off not knowing squat about doing minor car repairs, I ask you? And what the heck kind of person who calls himself an American doesn't keep a roll of Duct Tape on hand? (Mine was at home, okay?)-- and since to them a car is an exotic, incomprehensible, and unpredictable entity, the car can only be attended to by a Garage Shaman who has undergone years of rigorous mystical training to learn to apply duct tape to hold the damned light in place until the new grill and plastic cowl piece can be called from Beyond in the week-long Ordering Ritual, and the Installation Ritual can be performed. Not to mention the monetary offerings that must be proffered in order to persuade the Shaman to undertake the preparations and the rituals. Rats. Ordaination and PhD be damned. It's times like this I really, really, really wish I'd stuck it out in Garage Shaman school and got the diploma. I know I could fix the whole schmeer for $25. Rats.