Do you know why I went to law school? To fight against injustice. Mainly injustice against myself.... Because some crazy shit happens to me. I haven't shared my joyful car-crushing experience from last fall, but it came back to literally bite me in the ass today -- and I could not be more pissed. Or more ready to sue somebody....
I left Washington DC on a Friday. I said good-bye to my house, my hometown of 17 years, and my dog. As I saddled up the Subaru Forrester (please refer to my February 17th post regarding lesbians) and made my way out of our nation's capital, some "check engine" light appeared on the dashboard . Dashboard lights (despite what Meatloaf sang) are always bad news, and since I had barely began step 1 of a 3000 mile journey, I took the car to Fitzgerald Subaru in Rockville, Maryland where I had the vehicle serviced about a week earlier. My husband (now the ex) talked to the service technician while I ran to Dunkin' Donuts (best. coffee. ever.) to grab breakfast. We waited the fifteen minutes that our service technician said the diagnostic would take. Then 30. Then 45. ...At this point, a small man stepped out of the garage and motioned for my husband to follow him. (This was simultaneously annoying and a relief -- I mean, I frankly found it very sexist that the gentleman would look to my husband since it's MY car... but since I don't care to be bothered with details -- details such as how the car actually works and why it is not now working -- I decided to stand down.) About 5 minutes later, my husband comes out of the same garage door and makes the same "follow-me" motion that the technician had made minutes earlier. Now I'm annoyed. Because obviously this problem did not go away (just make it go away!) and we would have to engage in a discussion (I hate discussing). Which would probably cost more money.
When I entered the garage I discovered that the problem had in fact increased exponentially. My mountain bike (which my friends fondly referred to as "The Tank" because of it's substantial weight and ability to handle an impact) was piled in a shredded heavy-metal heap...because it had apparently hit the side of the building. Here is the critical exchange that occurred while I foraged for sustenance at Double D: 1) Husband asked technician if he should take our bikes off the top of the car; 2) Technician said "no," the bay of the garage opens high enough to allow bike passage; 3) Technician proceeds to slam bikes into the side of the building without further lifting the garage bay. We later learned that this was only the second-stupidest thing that this technician ever did. Apparently the first was to leave a kayak strapped to the top of a vehicle while he ran it through a car wash. The kayak hit the top wash racks with such force that it shot out the back of the automated laundry like a cannon, and landed smack in the windshield of a new impreza hatchback. ...so we're not saving lives at Fitzgerald's of Rockville.
Once the 3000 mile journey was complete and I was left to my own devices in San Diego, I took the car to be repaired and was given a rental car. It was some craptacular box on wheels from Enterprise, and I didn't bitch because I was told it would only be a week. Or two. Or three...and then four. Unfortunately, I had to do my job, despite the fact that others apparently were not doing theirs. I am in the business of sales, and part of that business includes the shlepping of products and promotional items from one location to another. One rainy Thursday, while shlepping to a client in a particularly San Fransisco-esk neighborhood, I had trouble finding parking, so rounded the corner and parked on a hill. A steep hill. Steep, really...really steep. And as I was retrieving packages from the back seat, boxcar Willy jolted. Paused. ...and then moved with ensuing force down the hill, crashing into the intersection and a stop sign.
A couple of points here: 1) I'm from Indiana and we don't have hills there; you can see all the way to Iowa. I didn't know the rule about turning the wheels in - or out (details) -- when you park on a hill. Of course, everyone was eager to share that nugget of information after the fact when it was oh-so-helpful. ...thanks team; 2) I did in fact have the parking break on. As previously mentioned, I do not conform to preconceived gender stereotypes, and prior to purchasing the subaru, I drove a vehicle with standard transmission. I also drove farm equipment. Therefore, it is ingrained in me to always, always use the parking break. But despite doing the right thing, the accident was assigned to me-- not Enterprise Car Rental (I'd like to pick you up, bitch) -- and a $500 deposit was swept out of my bank account.
Since the time of that incident, the price of gas has crept up at a consistently alarming pace. In California, the price is steady at about $4.25 per gallon. This fact led me to take the car for an appraisal today (price of gas added to 22.5 miles per gallon equals me without money), where I learned that my $19,000 blue book value car would garner me a whooping $11k. Because it has been in a major accident. ...Caused by Subaru. ...is that just me? Or does anyone else see the irony here?
...and that fucking "check engine" light never did go off.
I left Washington DC on a Friday. I said good-bye to my house, my hometown of 17 years, and my dog. As I saddled up the Subaru Forrester (please refer to my February 17th post regarding lesbians) and made my way out of our nation's capital, some "check engine" light appeared on the dashboard . Dashboard lights (despite what Meatloaf sang) are always bad news, and since I had barely began step 1 of a 3000 mile journey, I took the car to Fitzgerald Subaru in Rockville, Maryland where I had the vehicle serviced about a week earlier. My husband (now the ex) talked to the service technician while I ran to Dunkin' Donuts (best. coffee. ever.) to grab breakfast. We waited the fifteen minutes that our service technician said the diagnostic would take. Then 30. Then 45. ...At this point, a small man stepped out of the garage and motioned for my husband to follow him. (This was simultaneously annoying and a relief -- I mean, I frankly found it very sexist that the gentleman would look to my husband since it's MY car... but since I don't care to be bothered with details -- details such as how the car actually works and why it is not now working -- I decided to stand down.) About 5 minutes later, my husband comes out of the same garage door and makes the same "follow-me" motion that the technician had made minutes earlier. Now I'm annoyed. Because obviously this problem did not go away (just make it go away!) and we would have to engage in a discussion (I hate discussing). Which would probably cost more money.
When I entered the garage I discovered that the problem had in fact increased exponentially. My mountain bike (which my friends fondly referred to as "The Tank" because of it's substantial weight and ability to handle an impact) was piled in a shredded heavy-metal heap...because it had apparently hit the side of the building. Here is the critical exchange that occurred while I foraged for sustenance at Double D: 1) Husband asked technician if he should take our bikes off the top of the car; 2) Technician said "no," the bay of the garage opens high enough to allow bike passage; 3) Technician proceeds to slam bikes into the side of the building without further lifting the garage bay. We later learned that this was only the second-stupidest thing that this technician ever did. Apparently the first was to leave a kayak strapped to the top of a vehicle while he ran it through a car wash. The kayak hit the top wash racks with such force that it shot out the back of the automated laundry like a cannon, and landed smack in the windshield of a new impreza hatchback. ...so we're not saving lives at Fitzgerald's of Rockville.
Once the 3000 mile journey was complete and I was left to my own devices in San Diego, I took the car to be repaired and was given a rental car. It was some craptacular box on wheels from Enterprise, and I didn't bitch because I was told it would only be a week. Or two. Or three...and then four. Unfortunately, I had to do my job, despite the fact that others apparently were not doing theirs. I am in the business of sales, and part of that business includes the shlepping of products and promotional items from one location to another. One rainy Thursday, while shlepping to a client in a particularly San Fransisco-esk neighborhood, I had trouble finding parking, so rounded the corner and parked on a hill. A steep hill. Steep, really...really steep. And as I was retrieving packages from the back seat, boxcar Willy jolted. Paused. ...and then moved with ensuing force down the hill, crashing into the intersection and a stop sign.
A couple of points here: 1) I'm from Indiana and we don't have hills there; you can see all the way to Iowa. I didn't know the rule about turning the wheels in - or out (details) -- when you park on a hill. Of course, everyone was eager to share that nugget of information after the fact when it was oh-so-helpful. ...thanks team; 2) I did in fact have the parking break on. As previously mentioned, I do not conform to preconceived gender stereotypes, and prior to purchasing the subaru, I drove a vehicle with standard transmission. I also drove farm equipment. Therefore, it is ingrained in me to always, always use the parking break. But despite doing the right thing, the accident was assigned to me-- not Enterprise Car Rental (I'd like to pick you up, bitch) -- and a $500 deposit was swept out of my bank account.
Since the time of that incident, the price of gas has crept up at a consistently alarming pace. In California, the price is steady at about $4.25 per gallon. This fact led me to take the car for an appraisal today (price of gas added to 22.5 miles per gallon equals me without money), where I learned that my $19,000 blue book value car would garner me a whooping $11k. Because it has been in a major accident. ...Caused by Subaru. ...is that just me? Or does anyone else see the irony here?
...and that fucking "check engine" light never did go off.
First of all, I LOVE reading your entries here. I'm not sure if that helps your day or not, but you do crack me up (and I'd like to pre-order your first book, please). Secondly, I find it very odd that I'm reading this here and now after having just bought my first Subaru Forester a month ago... AND the check engine light has just begun to come on frequently!!! What gives? And is there something that I don't know about lesbians and Foresters?? One of my best lady friends calls my car "the lesbaru". Did I miss a memo somewhere? Not that it would've changed my mind if I had gotten the memo, but I thought I lived in a big lesbian hotbed (umm... no pun intended) here in Santa Cruz. Shouldn't I know these things?
ReplyDeleteThanks doll -- you did make my day. I too did not learn that the Subaru is a lesbian-preferred vehicle until after my purchase. I even live in a gayborhood, and still no memo. Don't take it personally -- and remember that the dashboard light is under warranty.
ReplyDeleteEast-Coast Girl- These posts are the soul-clearing rants that I have always wanted to write... from the East Coast. Bravo.
ReplyDeleteRJ
OMG, each paragraph is more outrageous than the one before! Is that really "Part 1"??
ReplyDelete...really...
ReplyDelete