Wimmen and Veehikls
Frankly my relationship with the warning light on my dashboard is on a “need to know” basis—and I don’t see anything there that I would ever want or need to know.
So last week, when my dashboard said “service engine soon,” I assumed, as any normal person would, that it meant, “You know, if you get around to it, it would be good, actually it’s nothing very serious, but it would be good if you could get your husband to run the car over to a gas station, or maybe just have a look himself, but really, only if you guys have time. Really, it’s nothing serious.”
THAT’S what I would mean if I were a dashboard light.
There SHOULD be light that says, “This is an absolute emergency and if you don’t do something right now, and I mean NOW, there are going to be dire consequences.”
Unfortunately, that light has been removed from our car.
So, really, until the loud clunking noise began, I wasn’t taking this too seriously. AS it turned out, I made a grave mistake. We needed a new engine. My husband ahs very kindly said that it wasn’t my fault, and that probably the was already done by the time the light went on and blah da blah da blah da blah. Anyway you say it, there goes Christmas.
This brings us however, to the subject of “garage talk.” Talking to a mechanic is like talking to a doctor whose ostensibly trying to tell you “the truth.” It’s a kind of language that’s more related to keeping the person talking to you from being sued than really informing you about the condition of your gall bladder—or your car. They can always say, “I told her that her asemic carabulator was faulty and that we might have to replace the jasbro and the consternator too, but it was up to her about the wakmortar.” So in a court of law, it would be our fault if the wakmortar suddenly leaps out of the engine and takes off our heads.
They know that you know that if they explain anything to you, ti’s only going to be worse. “Well, the wakmortar is connected to the tisbulator and banjob and ti keeps them running, but in this model, they made the banjob out of a hardened plastic and they’ve been having some trouble with them. Sometimes.”
“So, should we just replace the banjob?” “Can’t get to the banjob without taking off the racepate and the jush and, heck, they’re clear down at the bottom of your motor.”
Well heck. Why don’t you just stick your head in that little hole there where it says “fuel” and light yourself a Marlboro?
I want my car back. I want to open my globe compartment and know my lipgloss is there and that there’s a water bottlwe and dog treats in the back if I want to take my puppy over to the industrial park to scare the ducks. I want to walk out of the grocery and see that familiar old battered body waiting for em to load her up and take her home.
All this happened in Grand Junction, Colorado, where I was visiting some friends. I rented a car, and now I have to drive back and pick up my baby. Another eight hours of Diet Coke and licorice vines.
At the car rental, to my wondrous surprise, I found that my license had fallen out of my purse during my travels! The said, of course, that he couldn’t rent me a car. My eyeballs started rolling back in my head and I fell to the ground cursing the entire kind, all those who deal with motored vehicles. So, he took pity on my and said I could fax him a copy from home. When told me he’d also given me unlimited miles instead of the usual 250 daily out-of-state miles, I broke into bitter tears. Why me? Why does it always have to be moi?
This, this is why I don’t look at the “service engine soon” light. Nothing good ever comes from it.
P.S. For you car buffs, it turned out that the heater control valve was leaking only under acceleration, which caused the coolant to leak out which blew the head gasket, which blew the motor. Guy said he’d never seen that before. Well, dang.
So last week, when my dashboard said “service engine soon,” I assumed, as any normal person would, that it meant, “You know, if you get around to it, it would be good, actually it’s nothing very serious, but it would be good if you could get your husband to run the car over to a gas station, or maybe just have a look himself, but really, only if you guys have time. Really, it’s nothing serious.”
THAT’S what I would mean if I were a dashboard light.
There SHOULD be light that says, “This is an absolute emergency and if you don’t do something right now, and I mean NOW, there are going to be dire consequences.”
Unfortunately, that light has been removed from our car.
So, really, until the loud clunking noise began, I wasn’t taking this too seriously. AS it turned out, I made a grave mistake. We needed a new engine. My husband ahs very kindly said that it wasn’t my fault, and that probably the was already done by the time the light went on and blah da blah da blah da blah. Anyway you say it, there goes Christmas.
This brings us however, to the subject of “garage talk.” Talking to a mechanic is like talking to a doctor whose ostensibly trying to tell you “the truth.” It’s a kind of language that’s more related to keeping the person talking to you from being sued than really informing you about the condition of your gall bladder—or your car. They can always say, “I told her that her asemic carabulator was faulty and that we might have to replace the jasbro and the consternator too, but it was up to her about the wakmortar.” So in a court of law, it would be our fault if the wakmortar suddenly leaps out of the engine and takes off our heads.
They know that you know that if they explain anything to you, ti’s only going to be worse. “Well, the wakmortar is connected to the tisbulator and banjob and ti keeps them running, but in this model, they made the banjob out of a hardened plastic and they’ve been having some trouble with them. Sometimes.”
“So, should we just replace the banjob?” “Can’t get to the banjob without taking off the racepate and the jush and, heck, they’re clear down at the bottom of your motor.”
Well heck. Why don’t you just stick your head in that little hole there where it says “fuel” and light yourself a Marlboro?
I want my car back. I want to open my globe compartment and know my lipgloss is there and that there’s a water bottlwe and dog treats in the back if I want to take my puppy over to the industrial park to scare the ducks. I want to walk out of the grocery and see that familiar old battered body waiting for em to load her up and take her home.
All this happened in Grand Junction, Colorado, where I was visiting some friends. I rented a car, and now I have to drive back and pick up my baby. Another eight hours of Diet Coke and licorice vines.
At the car rental, to my wondrous surprise, I found that my license had fallen out of my purse during my travels! The said, of course, that he couldn’t rent me a car. My eyeballs started rolling back in my head and I fell to the ground cursing the entire kind, all those who deal with motored vehicles. So, he took pity on my and said I could fax him a copy from home. When told me he’d also given me unlimited miles instead of the usual 250 daily out-of-state miles, I broke into bitter tears. Why me? Why does it always have to be moi?
This, this is why I don’t look at the “service engine soon” light. Nothing good ever comes from it.
P.S. For you car buffs, it turned out that the heater control valve was leaking only under acceleration, which caused the coolant to leak out which blew the head gasket, which blew the motor. Guy said he’d never seen that before. Well, dang.
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