My Labor Day has thus far consisted of preparations for my imminent trip. More on that later. My boss, Flo, and her new boyfriend will be house- and dog-sitting while I'm gone, so this morning I set about repairing the guest room toilet, which clearly was still using parts from '87. Specifically, 1887. There I was, standing in gray water, swearing at the ancient bolt I'd just stripped, when it hit me: even on Labor Day, I'm dealing with Flo's shit.
"This pleases me," she replied.