Remember how I had to walk 8.5 miles to work yesterday? Yeah, me too. The reason I had to walk that hellish distance was because my car would’t start. After some intense diagnostics performed by yours truly (my roommate tried jumping my car and it worked) I determined that it was, in fact, time for a new battery. I also needed an oil change. And a new taillight.
After showing up at my friendly neighborhood WalMart tire and lube center, I then proceeded to wait for dang near four hours. In the process of replacing my battery, they managed to RIP out the the bolt down which apparently holds your battery in place (so they told me. I can change a tire and I know where the gas goes… beyond that my car knowledge is pretty freaking limited). My friendly neighborhood WalMart can’t fix that, so I get the pleasure of fixing that problem (for which I will be reimbursed) at my leisure sometime before my battery jumps right out of the front of my car causing me to die in a horrible accident in the left lane of I-75.
Here is a picture of what my car looks like after four hours, tons of christmas carol muzak, and more money than I had really planned on spending:
In short, it looks exactly like it did BEFORE those four torturous waiting room hours. Let me just say thank sweet, merciful Vishnu for smart phones. Without the internet, that would have been unbearable.
But I show you the visible evidence of my car to demonstrate this fact: I always think after spending so much money and so much time having your car worked on, it should look different. It should come out with chrome molding. Or spinning rims. Or a flame thrower bolted to the hood. But it didn’t. All that time, effort, and money for nothing more than exactly what my car was like two days ago. Lame.
To compound the misery of my afternoon, I had my trust violated. The guy working on my car (before the horrific raping of my bolt down) was an older gentleman with a ROCKING beard. Much like lumberjacks and mall santas, I generally feel more comfortable when my mechanic has a beard. But this guy looked me right in the face, recognized me as one of the bearded brethren, and STILL did a terrible job of fixing my car. It’s like going to the hospital for a flu shot and coming out with a broken arm. Not cool, beard guy. Not cool at all.
I will undoubtedly complain next week when I go to have my car fixed AGAIN. But until then, I leave you with this sobering thought…
Apparently having a beard isn’t everything. Who knew?