As many of you may or may not know, I am certain my car drove over an ancient Indian burial ground at some point over the past month. In the past 2 weeks, here is the small fortune I have dropped. Some of it is my fault and some is because my car has over 230,000 miles on it:
- Paid $463 to Tire Discounters because I virtually had no breaks left.
- Return trip to Tire Discounters $64 gone.
- Lock my keys in my car. Called AAA only to discover my husband had not renewed it- $88 to renew.
- $125 fine for not having my tags. Thanks Officer Doesn’t Have Anything Better to do.
- $59 fee for tags so Officer Doesn’t Have Anything Better to Do doesn’t pull me over again.
At lunch today I finally admitted I needed oil in my car or it was going to blow up. I was pleased to learn NTB was 1 mile away so I headed there after work hoping I could get in for an oil change.
Mr. Too Many Tats explained it would be an hour and that I would have to come back tomorrow if I wanted it faster.
“So do you think I can make it about 16 miles to home without my car blowing up?”
I know nothing about cars and quiet frankly, I don’t want to learn. Like my budget, I just want to shove it to someone and say “Will you just do it?” Learning about cars holds about the same amount of fascination for me as learning how Scotch tape is made.
“Lemme check your dip stick and we’ll see.”
Outside I popped the hood and he pulled on the stick thingy and cleaned it off. This seemed counterproductive as I thought we were checking for oil. He rinsed and repeated.
“There is zero oil on the stick.” He proclaimed.
“Eww, that’s bad isn’t it?” I asked, scrunching my nose.
“Yeah, I would go to an auto store and get a quart.”
Not wanting to waste a cent on something as boring as oil I asked what I thought to be a logical question.
“But surely I can get home without my car blowing up right? I just hate to put oil in it if you are going to put oil in tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t risk it, just get a quart and you’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, I turned my car around and headed for an Auto Zone I saw a mile back.
As I turned into the parking lot, I saw a very old woman out of the corner of my eye, wearing an Auto Zone uniform.
‘Well how about that?’ I thought. I had never seen an old lady working at an auto store. Normally if it’s a woman, she looks like an ugly version of Justin Bieber. I decided we would call her Marge.
I walked in and waited my turn at the front desk. When it was my turn, I announced, “I have no oil, I need a quart. Can someone please put it in my car?”
“You have no oil?” The Clerk asked speculatively.
“Well the guy at NSB, NRB…no NTB up the street said there is zero oil on the stick and while I do probably have 1 and a half quarts, I need another quart.
Just then I see Marge limping around the corner. And this is why I cannot be trusted with my vision. Marge was actually Dan and Dan painfully took away 10 minutes of my life I will never get back.
“Dan, can you help this young lady. She doesn’t have any oil.”
In true creepy, old man fashion, Dan starred at me in an effort to silently chastise me for the lack of upkeep on my car.
Dan’s “look” that he was going for was To Catch a Predator meets Duck Dynasty with a sprinkling of I did way too many drugs after Vietnam.
Dan wore glasses like these:
He wore a camo cap over unkept curly salt and pepper hair that fell to his shoulders. His Auto Zone issued red polo was untucked and fell over oil stained khakis.
When he came to, he announced, “I need 2 quarts of oil!”
“But I’m getting an oil change tomorrow. 2 really isn’t necessary.”
I think the original Clerk understood what I was saying. Dan wasn’t going to have it.
Clearly ignoring me he reiterated, “Give me 2 bottles.”
He picked them up and started towards the door.
“We aren’t ever going to let this happen again, are we?” He admonished.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just really bad with car maintenance.”
“Every Saturday!” he exclaimed while throwing up an index finger layered with sores, “every Saturday you need to check your oil. I check my van every Saturday!”
‘Of coarse you have a van, probably with tinted windows’, I thought.
I would not be checking my oil every Saturday as I don’t even know where I’m looking on the stick.
“I went ahead and popped the hood for you.” I said as if this was a valid contribution to topping off my oil.
“You know how to open this?” He asked.
“Yes,” I lied. “You just put your hand under the hood and push up,” I said as I put my hand under, pushed up and nothing happened. My frustration level was increasing by the minute. I didn’t want a hands on experience. I didn’t want to learn this for myself so I could do it on my own, I just want someone to do it. It was 6:30 now and I was hangry.
“Hmm, that’s funny, it’s not opening.” I said as if I never have this problem.
He immediately got down on his knees and peered through the grill while putting his nasty ass index finger under the hood.
“I see it,” he said jiggling something. Suddenly it opened.
He poured 1 quart in and checked the stick. Apparently this did not return the results he was looking for because he immediately opened the second bottle, giving me absolutely no voice in the matter. I bit my lip since each quart was just $3.99 and I just needed to be done.
$8.58 later I was out of there thanking Dan and the other Clerk for “all of their help.”
Really, I’m not trying to anger a medicine doctor or an ancient tribe or voodoo-this-or -that but I really have to ask, “when will my car troubles go away for a while?”
Would a priest be open to exercising the Toyota Corolla demons?