  Just got back from the body shop. I spent most of the morning sweeping glass out of my car (and slicing up my fingers). First thing this morning, I called the apartment management. The woman who answered the phone sent me to another woman, to another, and then the third person informed me that I just need to wait for their insurance people to contact me. I don't forsee this happening -- I don't know that they have my phone number. Which I guess means wait for the mail? This woman wasn't very nice to me -- each of the three made it clear they didn't care about me and said, delightfully, that they didn't know about the tree mess until this morning. Thanks, ladies. I have been on and off the phone with my parents, who don't seem to understand the extent of the damage. My father just wants me to pop the roof up. I called around and got my mechanic to refer me to a body shop. I called the body shop, and I expressed my concern about driving my car to the man on the phone.
He said bring it on in. I do, and as I'm walking in, he and some other woman start blasting me with questions and tell me straight out there's nothing I can do and I shouldn't be driving it. Then (this is great) they tell me to stop crying because it's just a car. It's not the car, I tell them, it's that I know no one else around me.
I have no way to get to work, I have no family within a thousand miles, and everyone is telling me what to do and I can't do it all. She directs me to the tissues. I sit in their lobby and call my father, who I can't hear because he's in Podunk, Mississippi, and then I end up driving home. 
