My vehicle has been violated by some sort of high-velocity projectile that no one can either find or explain, other than it was apparently launched from a lawn maintenance machine. I now have two broken windows, covered with plastic and shouting “Ghetto-Mobile!” I have been put through considerable inconvenience and irritation to solve this problem. I have endured a cadre of Bubbas standing around scratching their heads and making man-noises and telling me what to do about it, but not really offering to do anything themselves except find out who to blame and charge for the expense. And be fascinated at the mystery of the un-findable projectile. I spent an hour on the phone with the glass repair man, again with Bubba-advice everywhere, trying to explain to him exactly what I meant when I said ‘driver-side rear.’ I handled all of this, along with the recognition that until the repairs were made my van was undrivable and I had to leave it unattended in a public parking lot overnight, with good grace and humor. No, really. I figured life happens, even though as far as this auto is concerned it seems to happen to me with alarming frequency, but there was no help for it and I may as well try to preserve my blood pressure.
That good grace ended early this morning when the glass guy called me at home and asked me for the same information I gave him yesterday, acting like we had never spoken. My ability to deal with dipshits had reached its quota, and I had to then hand the phone to Hubby, who further infuriated me by playing good-cop with this obvious incompetent nincompoop. I arrived at work this morning to find yet another Bubba circling my car with a tape measure (!) trying to determine the exact size of the window. Because the window size isn’t listed on ALL THE OTHER DIMENSIONS I HAD GIVEN HIM THE DAY BEFORE.
It is now 3:00pm. No one has done anything about the fact that I have a Mommy-mobile in the parking lot with plastic over one whole side of it, and that I need to leave in less than two hours. Nor has anyone commented about the fact that there is more glass – little stick-in-a-child’s-toe-and-never-come-out shards of glass embedded in my leather seats and carpet, snagged in my door, and basically blanketing the interior – on the inside of the vehicle than on the outside.
I am royally, if impotently, angry about this whole thing. And none of the Bubbas will talk to me any more after I yelled at the dipshit this morning. Even the measuring-tape guy was scared of me. I guess I’ve got myself a reputation now. They insist on dealing with my husband. Who isn’t here. So he’s gonna get a blast of hot air from me if he continues with this “I’m a good guy and I know how to talk to people so just let me handle it, honey” kind of bullshit. If my car isn’t fixed by the time I leave here today, I’m taking the company president’s car to go get my kids, and then I’m going to stop for ice cream and let them eat it in the car on the way home. While playing their game boys. With the windows down.