There are a lot of reasons I’m excited to finally get deployed and start working in the field—but I’ll be honest, one of the biggest ones? The $68 per diem. That’s right. My employer is handing me $68 a day to eat—and Frugal Nate sees an opportunity. See, whatever I don’t spend on food, I get to keep. You do the math. If I play it smart, I could be pocketing a decent chunk just by skipping the overpriced airport sandwich or resisting the siren song of Cracker Barrel. But here’s where it gets complicated. Because inside me—right next to the practical guy with the calculator—is the fat kid who remembers that old Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial. You know the one. “The adult in me loves the fiber. The kid in me loves the taste!” Well, my inner child wants tacos from food trucks. He wants barbecue so smoky it makes your eyes water. He wants everything bagels from Queens, shrimp and grits in Charleston, and pie from some place where “pie” is pronounced with two syllables. Back in th...

  I just wrapped up the New York State Independent Appraiser 17–71 course. Knocked it out fast. Not because I was rushing, but because the content felt like second nature. After grinding through North Carolina’s adjuster exam—where you have to juggle inland marine, homeowner vs. dwelling policy nuances, and every obscure exception under the sun—this felt like coming home. This course was all about the anatomy of cars. How assemblies fit. How systems talk to each other. What’s repairable, what’s replaceable. It was the language I’ve spoken for years in body shops, the stuff that doesn’t need flashcards or highlighters. Reading about it felt like sitting in kindergarten again, naming shapes and colors I’ve known since I was a kid turning wrenches and learning the business from the ground up. That’s not coursework. That’s muscle memory. That’s clocking years on the body shop side of the fence, walking frame rails and pulling fenders before half the internet knew what a unibody was. ...

  Today was the big day. I showed up a solid half hour early at Richmond County Community College, doing my best to feel prepared and not anxious—even though I was totally a little anxious. As I walked in, I met my first obstacle: a woman at the front desk who was clearly not having a great morning. She was wearing fuzzy house slippers (bold choice for state exams), giving the staff attitude, and didn’t seem to know which test she was supposed to take or where she was supposed to go. Every time she slid or shuffled out of her slippers, I caught a glimpse of a very... earthy foot. She radiated bad energy. I started wondering if I was even in the right place. Early or not, that vibe was contagious. Eventually, the mystery of Fuzzy Slippers was resolved, and it was my turn to check in. I came loaded for bureaucratic bear: eight points of ID, my test admission slip, my pre-licensing course certificate—even though I didn’t need it. No way was I letting red tape trip me up. If I was...

  The year was 2012, and I got fired. Yeah. Fired. Let go. Terminated. Services no longer required. And not in some back office with tissues and a soft goodbye—no, I got fired on a train ride home , like a character in a bad breakup movie. The owner didn’t even do it himself. His wife did the honors. Unceremonious doesn’t even cover it. To be fair, the shop had been a circus for a while. Just the week before, the owner fired the entire crew and shut the place down for a day—because of an ongoing feud between the head body man (a illegally documented Englishman, for some reason) and Junior, our Puerto Rican painter from the Bronx who thought everything could be fixed with a two-foot extension cord and some duct tape. That had nothing to do with me, but still, I should’ve seen the writing on the lift. Congratulations! You’re a 35-year-old unemployed body shop estimator. But I didn’t get to mope long. I walked through the front door, and Jamie—my wife, my partner, my permanent hy...

Today started with the noble goal of keeping America’s skies safe—by heading to a TSA PreCheck appointment in a strip mall Staples. Nothing screams “national security infrastructure” quite like getting your biometric data scanned next to the aisle of discounted laser printers. next to a frozen yogurt shop. The whole thing felt as real as my “Real ID” – which, ironically, hasn’t arrived yet. But I digress. But sure, I get it. It’s all part of the theater. And as someone who’s lived long enough to remember flying when peanuts came in little foil bags and you could bring a hunting knife in your carry-on, I can tell you—we’ve traded security for the illusion of security. Truth is, I’m not exactly sold on all this Extra screening,  It feels like a lot of effort to catch bottled water and forgotten pocketknives, but hey — what do I know? I’m just a guy with a freshly printed wrong license and a deep well of cynicism. My kids say behind every cynic is a disappointed idealist. Ma...

Last night, at some ungodly hour when normal people are asleep or watching true crime documentaries, I clicked through the final module of my AdjusterPro exam prep course. Every last bit—100% complete. Two practice exams? Crushed them. With time to spare. In, fact i should really slow down, because I Missed a few question by rushing and not taking the time to read it correctly, I closed the tab like a man finishing a long, strange pilgrimage. Then I opened my email and there it was: the certificate. Gold seal, blue accents, the whole nine yards. It hit harder than I expected. I was proud. Really proud This wasn’t just some PDF badge for showing up. I worked for this one. This certificate wasn’t handed out with a slice of sheet cake in a breakroom. This one had caffeine sweats, practice tests, mini meltdowns, and more than a few moments of wondering if I was too old to learn something new. Back in the early days—when I first made the jump from turning wrenches to writing estimates...

For the year before I took this catastrophe adjuster gig, I was working double time. Days helping get a Bodyshop of the ground and then nights, weekends, and whenever someone broke down on the side of the road—I was out running a wrecker truck for my buddy Luis. He’s based in Mooresville, but we tried to open up a new zone closer to where I live. I’d haul his tow truck into uncharted territory and grind all day and night, chasing calls, jumping batteries, pulling cars out of ditches, and sweet-talking my way into new accounts and google reviews. The plan was to find the perfect Tow Yard/Bodyshop in this area and double the territory Some nights I slept in that truck. Other nights, it felt like I might not wake up at all. See, one of the perks of driving a tow truck is that they’re practically invisible to law enforcement. As long as it’s lettered up and looks legit, you can park just about anywhere, hang in a lot for hours, and bend the speed limit a little without raising eyebrows. Y...

I recently received the Thule Construct 28L backpack from my company, and I’m excited to put it through its paces over the next few weeks. This bag is built with organization and durability in mind, and it promises to be a solid companion for transporting all the gear I need for work, from my laptop to extra monitors and even a printer. First Impressions: Out of the box, the Construct 28L has a sleek, professional look. It’s understated but solidly built, with quality materials that give off a premium feel. The bag is roomy enough to fit all of my work essentials comfortably, including my laptop, a couple of extra monitors, and a small printer. There's plenty of space left over, which is perfect for tossing in other items like cables, notebooks, and even a jacket or lunch if needed. Comfort and Fit: I’ve worn it around the house a few times to get a feel for it. The straps are well-padded, and the back panel has a nice ergonomic design that makes it comfortable to carry—even wh...

In 1992, I was 15 years old—too young to drive legally, too old to sit quietly in the backseat, and just the right age to be handed a wildly irresponsible level of trust by my father. Dad had just landed the gig of a lifetime—Postmaster. After years of managing mail carriers, dodging union beefs, and making sure no one parked a Grumman LLV in a ditch, he was finally getting the keys to his own little federal kingdom. So naturally, He celebrated. The party was in New Windsor, NY, and it had all the energy of a retirement bash crossed with a dive bar karaoke night—except Dad wasn’t retiring, just getting promoted. Which somehow made it rowdier. Now, my old man wasn’t the kind of guy to sip a light beer and call it a night. He was deep into the celebration, nursing a buzz that couldn’t drive, let alone pass a breathalyzer. So when the time came to head home—nearly an hour away—he looked at me and said something along the lines of, “You’re up, kid.” Let me be clear: I had no permit, no...

Before we lived in North Carolina full time, we’d come down now and then to visit Jamie's family. On one of those trips, my stepdaughter did what every parent secretly fears during a casual visit to the animal shelter—she found the one . That dog, Dixie Doodle, turned out to be everything you’d want in a mutt: sweet, loyal, a little weird, and sporting a natural mohawk that said, “I ride shotgun.” Jamie, my wife, pulled the ultimate animal lover move. She got Dixie’s “brother” too. Now, there’s an expression in the car business when someone gets totally hosed in a deal—“they got put together.” Well, if you want to “put together” Jamie, all you need is a sad animal story and a slightly guilty conscience. The woman mentioned Dixie and Noah were found in a trash bag together and vultures were eating a deceased sibling. That’s how we ended up with Noah , Dixie’s alleged sibling and the canine equivalent of a broken smoke alarm: constantly going off, especially before a storm. Noah ...

  When a car comes in after an accident, there's usually a little extra opportunity tucked into the chaos—what we in the industry call upselling the side damage. Basically, if the car’s already in the shop, masked off, and halfway to looking like a prop in a sci-fi movie, it’s a great time to fix other dings and dents—often at a discount. Less setup, less time, and one trip to the paint booth. I was working in Poughkeepsie when a woman brought in her Volkswagen Jetta. She had hit a deer—not exactly breaking news in upstate New York. The car had all the classic signs: smashed headlight, crumpled fender, dented door. It’s what happens when 150 pounds of forest muscle and fur meets German engineering at 55 mph. While writing the estimate, I noticed some older damage on the rocker panel. A sharp crease with a touch of rust, clearly from something hard and unmovable—maybe a rock. I finished her estimate, explained the deductible, rental setup, and walked her through the whole deer-h...

  There’s a special place in collision repair folklore for a group I lovingly refer to as The Ever Since Club . You know the type— “Ever since you painted my bumper, my Bluetooth won't sync.” Or, “Ever since you fixed my fender, my coffee doesn’t taste right.” So when a woman came back to our shop in Poughkeepsie complaining that ever since we’d replaced her front bumper , her radio reception had gone to hell, I figured I knew where this was headed. As Mr. Customer Service, I did what I always do: I explained. I gave her the whole behind-the-dash tour—the antenna on the roof, the cables routed through the interior, the distance between her issue and the area we actually worked on. I even dropped the line about how we document the damage, submit to insurance, and don’t touch systems unrelated to the repair unless we’re paid to do so. Still, she insisted. “I can’t listen to Bob and Todd in the morning on the Taconic anymore!” she screamed. Loudly. In the office. In front of othe...

I knew the Commercial Insurance section of the AdjusterPro course was coming—I just didn’t know it would hit like a forklift in reverse with no backup beeper. You ever sit through a lesson and feel like the information is important, but it’s being handed to you in a language you almost understand? That’s how this went. Pages of declarations, coverage parts, business income forms, and words like “coinsurance penalty” thrown around like I was supposed to already have an MBA in Risk Management. First off, I’ll say this: commercial policies are no joke. They are Frankenstein monsters stitched together with every possible “what if” a business could face. Fire? Covered. Theft? Probably. Mechanical breakdown of the automatic doughnut fryer? Weirdly specific, but maybe. One thing that really threw me was how many different types of commercial coverage there are. You’ve got your BOPs (Business Owner Policies), your CPPs (Commercial Package Policies), and your GL (General Liability). It's...

It’s Wednesday night and I’m staring at my laptop screen like it owes me money. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks cramming through online modules, watching videos, and rereading my notes trying to get ready to take the North Carolina adjuster’s exam. Here’s the kicker: I’ve been using AdjusterPro, which seems like a pretty solid course overall—except for one detail. Not one slide mentions North Carolina. Not one. I had to schedule the exam, before finishing the course, but yeah ..NADA I’m not saying I need a slideshow of lighthouses and sweet tea, but when you’re about to walk into a test that decides whether or not you’re allowed to assess property damage legally in your home state, a single reference would be nice. I’m not a nervous test taker usually, but I’m not gonna lie—I’m a little uneasy. Monday morning, I’ll be traveling through the beautiful hamlets of North Carolina—rolling hills, roadside barbecue joints, old barns that look like they could use an estimate of their own...

It was 2010, and I was working as an estimator in Suffern, New York— suffering in Suffern , as I used to joke. I worked on “Body Shop Row,” four shops packed so close together you could throw rocks between them. I commuted by train, which was new for me and honestly kind of nice. First time in my life I didn’t have to be alert for every inch of the commute. I’d usually open up shop around 7:30, even though we didn’t officially start until 8. One morning I rolled in, still craving coffee, and found someone already waiting—early twenties, puffy-eyed, clearly had been crying. My first thought: Wow, it’s way too early in the morning for this. But I’ve always tried to lead with empathy, so I introduced myself. Through the tears, she said, “Samantha was in an accident.” Now, I didn’t know who Samantha was, but this sort of confusion wasn’t unusual in my line of work. I asked gently, “Is Samantha a friend of yours?” She sniffled and said, “No, Samantha is my car.” Ah. Got it. I asked...

If you’ve ever wanted to feel like you’ve been dropped into a world where barns have replacement cost policies and pigs might actually be listed as "covered property," then boy do I have a section of the AdjusterPro course for you. I’m talking about the Farm and Ranch Insurance module. Look, I didn’t grow up on a farm, I played farmer for a few years when I moved to NC.. I’ve fixed trucks that smelled like they came from a farm, sure. I’ve adjusted claims on pickups that had more hay in the back seat than a horse trailer. But this part of the course had me staring at the screen like I’d accidentally clicked into an agricultural law degree. The terminology is wild. Coverage H? Coverage J? Farm barns, farm dwellings, farm personal property? It was like alphabet soup on top of a tractor manual. I found myself wondering if I’d need to start wearing Wranglers and chewing straw just to pass this section. I threw my hands in the air halfway through and yelled to no one in par...