of automobiles and anxiety

The "service engine soon" light is on in my car, and I'm planning on a little road trip out to the Olympic Peninsula with my son on the 19th. That's all the more reason to, you know, actually get the car serviced soon because my son has anxiety, and may well spend several hours freaking out if I don't get that taken care of. Of course there are issues:

1. No appointments available over the weekend, so I'm skipping out on work a bit early on Thursday.
2. I want the car on Saturday night for a social event*.
3. I actually need the car on Sunday for electrolysis, and I won't have time to travel across town to fetch it on Sunday.
4. Due to my son's work schedule and his mother's date schedule, he would have to take the bus he dreads to work on Friday if I didn't take the car to him. In all fairness to him, the route from Ex's to the Wendling's job** has been voted the worst in the city a few times. In general, though, growing up largely in the suburbs has given him a really bad attitude toward mass transit; I got over that by the time I was his age.

So for those still paying attention, the plan is:

1. The Wendling arrives at 1445 Thursday with the car.
2. We go get the car serviced. He hangs out with me while they work on it.
3. I take him to Ex's.
4. I take the train & bus home.
5. Late Saturday afternoon, I get the car.
6. I party with queers Saturday and get my face zapped Sunday.
7. On the way back from zappy, I drop the car off at Ex's, then take the train and bus home again.

Sheesh.

One bit of good news, though: I think I have fewer than a dozen bristles remaining under my chin, and I think we can declare victory over my nipple hairs.



*The Lambert House volunteer appreciation BBQ. Aw yeah, partying with teh kweerz.
**The 7.