It generally takes me about twenty minutes to open the hood of my car. The operation requires fingers the size of Slim Jims, a flashlight, and the ability to bench press half your body weight. Once you accomplish that, you need to find the coat hanger size rod that will prevent the hood from crushing your head like a walnut.
When I finally get the hood up on my jeep, it requires both hands and an engineering degree to even find the motor. My knowledge of auto maintenance consists of: the check engine light is a bad thing; and ignore the low fuel light at your own peril.
We had no check engine light on our old Ford Falcon. You knew it was time to get a tune-up whenever the car came to a grinding halt on some dark backwoods road 40 miles from nowhere. My jeep is designed to do a couple of hiccups and a grinding sound when it’s time for the 40,000 mile maintenance. Honestly.
So yesterday when we picked up my husband’s truck from the garage, he didn’t even make it home before the check engine light came on again. Since he can’t take any more time off work, it falls to me to take it back in and convince them that I know what I’m talking about.
“The check engine light came back on.”
“Must be the alternator.” (It’s always the alternator).
“It also hiccupped on the way in here.”
“To be on the safe side, we better rotate the tires and change the air.”
While everyone knows that your car handles better on fresh air, I’m pretty sure that’s not the problem. All I know for sure is that I better take a good book, a lunch, and a false sense of optimism.
I know going into it that I’m going to get fleeced. Each time the mechanic opens his mouth, I regret getting that Spanish literature degree in college. It’s all Greek to me.