I. Hate. Drunk wedding guests at a hotel. Mark said he didn’t take a name down because “they’d be waiting for me in the lobby.” Sure, them and the other ten assholes who ordered pizzas. I was there ten minutes with no idea who I was looking for with drunks coming up to me asking if I had their pizzas, kids coming up asking if I had their pizzas, other pizza drivers coming up asking if I knew where their party was. Here’s the rule: I don’t care if the customer says they’ll “see me.” If it’s going to a business or a public place, I want to know who I’m looking for. Get a name. It takes five seconds. It saves so much time.

Did I say I hate drunk wedding guests at hotels? Because, I. Love. Drunk wedding guests at a hotel. They waaaaay overtip.

There’s nothing quite like working all day — and being aware that something is wrong mechanically with your car, although, not being a certified mechanic, unable to ascertain exactly what that something is* — and coming home to find that your deadbolt isn’t working properly. Which is to say, for whatever reason, they key won’t unlock it like it will the bottom lock. Thank goodness for cell phones and emergency maintenance — a big hulking bald guy who did all kinds of things with the key and the door and eventually got me into my apartment. I played around with the deadbolt for a little bit, and with the door opened, the key seemed to be working again. In any case, I’m taking my spare keys with me today, and I’ll cross my fingers and hope that my door opens when I come home tonight.

Meanwhile, I’m going to see when I can get my car into the shop (Monday, maybe, Tuesday, certainly, but that might eff up my plans to go see Harry Potter with my little sister). If asked for an off the cuff diagnosis, I’d say “passenger side front brake.” Because the tire isn’t flat, but it’s making that weird thwump-thwump noise.

*Drive a car long enough, and you get a sixth sense about when not everything’s working as well as it’s supposed to be working.