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A sick one, but still.
When I left for work today, the word on the car was "annoying." My Saturday trip to the bank, to formally release the lien on my car that we paid off ages ago to pave the way to fix the accident damage, was a waste of time: Eleanor needed to come in, they said, since the loan and title were in her name. Fine, except that meant we had to be up and out at a relatively early hour this morning to do it, since I had to be in Rochester by 11 and she had to be to work long before I ever would've returned home.
We arrived, title and other documentation in hand, around 9:30, only to be told, Oh, YOU didn't need to come in, ma'am, we do this for dealers over the phone all the time, and sorry the other branch told you that you had to. Nonetheless, we put in the release request, and went our separate ways until we both got home from our workdays in the late afternoon today, me having just driven the wounded vehicle another 150-plus miles,....
and there, in the afternoon post, addressed to Eleanor, was one of those Fake Personal Letters that get sent to us from time to time, by political campaigns and charities and, as in this case, car dealers. (It never fools anybody; the font on the envelope isn't QUITE handwritten enough, and the cheapo presort-first-class stamp is always a giveaway.) Still, I handed it to my beloved, in case it was something actually important.
Well, I got the "I" right: not important, but ironic.
I seriously need to call this guy tomorrow (the R stands for "Ryan," as is clear from the letterhead and the card "he" cleverly inserted from his maildrop in Louisville, Kentucky) and see just how much he really wants our slightly defective trade. Between that and the insurance check, once it finally shows up, we could wind up doing okay on this whole clusterfudge.
When I left for work today, the word on the car was "annoying." My Saturday trip to the bank, to formally release the lien on my car that we paid off ages ago to pave the way to fix the accident damage, was a waste of time: Eleanor needed to come in, they said, since the loan and title were in her name. Fine, except that meant we had to be up and out at a relatively early hour this morning to do it, since I had to be in Rochester by 11 and she had to be to work long before I ever would've returned home.
We arrived, title and other documentation in hand, around 9:30, only to be told, Oh, YOU didn't need to come in, ma'am, we do this for dealers over the phone all the time, and sorry the other branch told you that you had to. Nonetheless, we put in the release request, and went our separate ways until we both got home from our workdays in the late afternoon today, me having just driven the wounded vehicle another 150-plus miles,....
and there, in the afternoon post, addressed to Eleanor, was one of those Fake Personal Letters that get sent to us from time to time, by political campaigns and charities and, as in this case, car dealers. (It never fools anybody; the font on the envelope isn't QUITE handwritten enough, and the cheapo presort-first-class stamp is always a giveaway.) Still, I handed it to my beloved, in case it was something actually important.
Well, I got the "I" right: not important, but ironic.
I seriously need to call this guy tomorrow (the R stands for "Ryan," as is clear from the letterhead and the card "he" cleverly inserted from his maildrop in Louisville, Kentucky) and see just how much he really wants our slightly defective trade. Between that and the insurance check, once it finally shows up, we could wind up doing okay on this whole clusterfudge.