Bullshitted.
I hit something. With my car. Not saying what, but it wasn't that bad. Nothing died. However, there are now a ton of ugly-ass scratches on my car (and the tiniest little dent) that I need to get fixed before Dad, the High Priest of All Things Honda, sees this. Not because I am afraid of him (okay, sort of because of that) but because he and Mom just don't need that kind of stress right now. I don't want to discuss it here, but I will say that Athens Regional Medical Center has seen my family three times too many this past week. So they really don't need to be concerning themselves with some little scratches, capisce?
I decided to flee the scene--I mean, take immediate action--and went to a body shop. The first one I went to said they couldn't do an estimate until Monday, when Mr. Estimate comes back. A leathered mechanic fearlessly smoking a cigarette in a puddle of oil said it could be fixed without replacing the bumper, which was music to my ears. No parts to buy=maximum savings for moi. Unfortunately, he said it would take two days. The longer they have it, the more labor I'm going to have to pay for, and the more likely it is that my Dad will come through town and wonder where the Silver Bullet is.
So I headed down to the next body shop, rolling in just before the whistle blew to send the fellas home. A weasely guy with a terrible combover looked at my car and declared it would need a new bumper cover. I protested, but still followed him inside to get my estimate. The office fairly reeked of fuck-you-over-ness, with atrocious maroon and hunter green wallpaper on the walls and framed pictures of old-timey cars that I'm certain were meant to gently imply that getting your car fixed at this body shop would be a lot like living in a Norman Rockwell painting. I swear, though, that when he read my estimate to me, I nearly choked. $600. Yeah, sure brah. Let me just pull out my checkbook for you.
The bullshit about getting your car messed up is that it's not really one of those things you can fix yourself. Being a DIY Warrior, I would not hesitate to pull out the sander and paint gun and go at the bitch, but those tools are fairly hard to come by. Maybe I'll make a mint auctioning my ACL tickets and not have to worry about it. Hurry, go buy them! I've got a car to fix!
Also, Angela, if you tell Mom and Dad about this, I will kill you.
April
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Dang!
It's your long-lost, semi-francophile roomie. I haven't checked up on your blog in a while, and as always, I love hearing about your life. You are one of the most fabulous people I've ever met! Oh, and sorry about the car--we've all been there. My old car was victim to a couple of those little yellow poles at the entrance to parking garages. -Tiff