The only things that I do know are that you need to get oil
changes when you go the number of miles they put on that little sticker, and
that every 75000 miles at the oil change place they tell you about a bunch of
other crap you need to get done: flushes and filters and belts – oh my!
Well, Shmu, my beautiful Buick, just crossed over into 80K
territory and needed a little tuck and lift. I had gone to my parent’s auto
garage and they suggested a bunch of stuff, so I took the estimates they gave
me and handed them to a garage in Chicago.
“Do this stuff.” Was basically the entire conversation that
was had when I dropped my car off.
I didn’t have anything that needed a car for two weeks, so I
told them that they could take their time and call me when it was ready. I kind
of assumed “take your time” meant like a week or so, but it came up on 10 days
and I hadn’t heard anything about Shmu. Part of me thought that the Eastern
European man who took my keys had sold Shmu for parts and headed to the French
Riviera… Well, Shmu couldn’t get him that far, but it might have gotten him a
nice weekend in Branson.
So I call the garage on Tuesday. The conversation goes like
this:
“Hi, I dropped off my car a while ago and hadn’t heard
anything.”
“Ok, it’s with George. He’s off today. Call tomorrow.”
“I need it by Friday.”
“Sure.”
The next day I called and George took the phone.
“Oh, hey. Yeah, I’ve been meaning to call you.”
Ya think? You’ve had my car for 10 days…
“Well, we were checking it out and the brakes are SHOT. I
don’t know how you got around. They should have gone out a long time ago –
they’re just caked in rust. It’s a miracle you made it.”
I think I’ve had my car serviced like 3 times in my life.
And EVERY time I take it in the brakes are “shot” and I have been freewheeling
on the jagged edge of death’s sharp precipice. According to autogarages I am
the most reckless and blessed survivor of rusty brakes on the entire planet.
He then goes on to reiterate that I should be dead and that
the brakes need replaced and Blah.
And I’m like, “Just whatever. I need it by Friday.”
“No problem! I’ll fix it and give you a call Thursday
night.”
“Okay, well I have to get it first thing Friday morning. You
open at 7?”
“Yep. It’ll be ready!”
Thursday came and went and I was 0% surprised that I didn’t
get a call. I had already decided, though, that I was going to go in, demand my
car and leave no matter how much rust was on my brakes and how loudly I was knocking
on death’s door.
Friday I made all my preparations. I packed my bag so I
could shower at the gym, I walked 5 blocks in the rain to get to the garage and
I crossed the threshold into the little lobby.
“Hi, I’m here for my car.”
“George is driving it around.”
What? It’s 7 in the morning. Why is he joy riding in my car?
10 minutes pass.
George enters and is like, “Yeah, your car’s done! It’s just
getting washed!”
It was pouring rain outside. There was no reason for my car
to be getting washed. Yes – it was nice, but I also had to be at work at 8:30
because I had a conference call with one of my customers.
George sits down and then the tiny Eastern European man rushes
in.
“Oh! Your car! Idda big mess! You coulda die in da car!”
“Yeah… Okay.”
“Looka da brake. You come look.”
We go into the garage and he picks up a metal object that
looks a brake with some rust on it.
“You crazy boy! You coulda die in da car with da break! You
aska oddur stuff but why fix dat when your whole car?!” He then pantomimed a
giant explosion.
Always. On. The. Verge. Of. Death.
Of course I can’t be a bitch in real life, so the whole time
I’m laughing and pretending that this was really funny and I was glad to be
exchanging jokes when I was getting later and later for work.
Well Mr. Eastern European pats me on the back and disappears
again. George goes over my GIANT bill and tells me about all the free stuff he
gave me.
“Your air filter was a mess. Took care of that for free.” He
nods at me like he’s my great benefactor.
And I’m like, “Where’s my car?”
To be honest, had it been a Saturday morning, I would have
enjoyed talking to these people. George was nice. Eastern European guy was a
delight and loved using his hands to tell every detail of his stories.
BUT I WAS LATE. And I specifically told them I had to pick
it up first thing.
So by this time it’s almost 7:30, a full half hour after me
getting there. The time is ticking away and I was on Twitter trying not to have
a panic attack.
Then this smug douchecock with a Prius marches in.
“Huhey, guys!” He says tipping his tweed hat. “Is my car
ready?”
At that moment his Prius emerges from the car wash and picks
him up.
“Thanks!” he said smugly. He tipped his hat again and goes
out to pick up his car. After waiting 30 seconds.
It’s creeping on 745 when Shmu finally lumbers out of the
car wash. I barely acknowledge Eastern European guy’s: “Gooda luck, young man!”
As I jump in the car and peel out towards home.
I have this awful way of making the worst possible decisions
that I think will save me time. For instance, this day, I cut through the back
roads and got to Broadway. Turning left off of Broadway in the mornings is
tough, so I figure I’ll take a left at the light a block early and use the side
streets.
Well, I forgot that there is a school a block from me and
pull onto my street behind a giant bus. The bus is stopped literally a block
from the school.
“Who the eff gets picked up a block from school?!”
I was seething when I see two women drag a child that was
roughly 2 years old out of the house. Any other time this kid would have been
adorable, but it was in puffy coat, could barely walk, and the two women refused
to carry it. This led to about a 30 minute walk from the house to the bus,
which is a distance of about 15 feet.
The snail child and his loving parents get to the bus and I
think it’s over, when I see that mama snail drags the kid up the stairs. They
disappear inside the bus for a good minute when I realize she is actually
walking the kid to his seat.
What service!
The mama jumps off the bus and then the bus drives the 1/3
of a block to the stop sign.
It is then that I realize the road in front of the school is
closed.
No slow zone.
No school zone.
Closed.
No way to get around it.
At this point, I don’t even know how it could get worse.
That is until I almost ran over a mom and her kids because I was trying to turn
back onto Broadway to go around the block so I could get back home.
All said and done, the usual 4 minute drive from the
autoshop to my place took a good 20 minutes.
The car worked great though. And the only near deaths were
the hordes of school children that got between me and my apartment.
My Twitter (kind of) Explained
In the past couple months I’ve discovered Twitter. And it is
amazing. Funny people post stuff all the time, my friends and I have
conversations, and, unlike Facebook, only like 10 people follow me, so I can
post as much stupid stuff as I want.
One of the things I loved posting about is my stupid
conversations at work. For instance, this week my coworker brought up the movie
Congo. I said I hadn’t seen it, which led to her sending me 2 clips from the
movie over lunch.
GOODGRAVYITISTHEMOSTGLORIOUSMOVIEEVER!
In the climactic scene angry apes are attacking people, then
a smarter ape with a cool wristband saves someone. This all devolves into one
of the humans shooting the apes with lasers and a volcano erupting!!!
ERUPTING!
How did I not know of this film?! On a scale of ridiculousness
this movie is an 11. This makes Vin Diesel hurtling through space across an
overpass in Fast and Furious 6 look like the scene from a Meryl Streep Oscar
movie.
Anyway, during my watching of the movie my coworker pinged
me something like “There is something beautiful and haunting about lasers and
primates on screen together.”
This is the kind of thing I post on Twitter. There is no
other Internet void where you can post drivel like this and I am enamored.
Also, as a spin off of a ridiculous conversation at work, I
have proclaimed April as Cake History Month. The main reason is that my
coworker and I think cake is better than pie and pie gets a whole day in March!
A day for a stupid pie food.
In protest I joked that I was going to make the entire month
of April Cake History Month in protest of Pie Day. I didn’t really take this
seriously until on two separate occasions at the end of last month I had random
friends say, “Tedd, that Nicki Minaj Awareness Month thing was great. I’ll
always remember that.”
This fed my ego enough to treat my 9 followers (Yeah, I said
ten earlier… I inflated the numbers) to Cake History Month. A month dedicated
to made up facts about Cakes.
So basically, if you want to read quotes from the movie
Congo or read fake facts about cakes, then my Twitter is the one to follow.
This may also be the reason that when I was home last
weekend my mom says to me, “Tedd, I don’t understand your Facebook. I just don’t
get it.”
Mother, if there is anyone responsible for this mess it’s
you.
#thefamilythattweetstogether
#dadwouldthinkimfunny?
#cakehistorymonth
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