…it’s when you do it.
Today has been one long dance of frustration. The Squire had to leave his car in the shop on Sunday night, which means he has to drive my Nissan. He had called the shop before I woke up and was told his car will be ready tomorrow, and the catalytic converter will set us back about $1,500.
Yeah. That’s pretty much what he said when they told him. No, they are not made of gold; they are made of platinum.
Blazer managed to scrape about six inches of vinyl off his lead, exposing the wires inside to moisture and other damage. My husband had wrapped the bare part with duct tape and managed to cut himself pretty badly in the process. Not a happy camper.
He has our taxes ready to file, but we have not gotten the info we need from one of the IRA accounts. The first time The Squire called, they insisted we deal with them over Skype, which we don’t have. No idea what that was all about. He finally got through on the web page, and they won’t have the figures ready until February 24th – almost a month past the due date. Not a happy camper.
My car only had a quarter tank of gas, but, hey, I get 30 mpg, so what’s the big deal? After searching all over the house for my purse so he could use the gasoline discount card (look, twenty cents per gallon is worth taking, right?), he finally came into the bedroom to ask me where on earth I’d put my pocketbook. He’d looked in the car – both seats and the trunk – and on the kitchen chair, with no luck. I thought maybe I’d dropped it in the bag with my knitting, but no joy there, either.
And then I remembered where it was – and it wasn’t good news. In addition to not liking to wear a coat, I don’t like to carry my purse with me. I had gone to Costco yesterday with a friend, and put my VISA and my club card in my pants pocket and stuck the purse under some shopping bags in the back of her car.
And it was still there.
Things are really, really bad when The Squire calls me by name.