Automotive Anxiety

My husband has long-said, "Our parents generation could do a little bit of anything. They could build a little, fix vehicles, do a little plumbing, do some electrical stuff. They could fix anything. It's not like that with our generation, why?"

Well, the reason why our generation has such a difficult time making vehicle repairs is because the automotive industry has totally run us out of vehicle repair. I'm assuming that every time someone is "certified" to work on a type of vehicle, the manufacturer gets some kind of kick-back. I'm just suspecting. I don't know if this is true. It is true, though, that alllllll vehicles today have computers in them. The part may not go bad, but the $2000 sensor just might...and then you have to be certified just to be able to find the sensor.

It was nothing, when I was a child, to climb onto the front fender of our 1968 Pontiac GTO and watch my Dad wrench on the engine. I'd fetch wrenches, sockets, screw drivers...and the occasional hammer. It went the same way with our 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo. And our 1981 Buick Skylark. Or my 1981 Ford Escort. Dad couldn't get his hands in the engine, but I could, and that's how I changed my timing belt. But, by the time we got to my Mom's Buick Century, times they were a-changing.

My ex-husband still found it possible to work on my Mazda MX-6, but the head cracked on that due to a faulty thermostat and I found it was just best to trade it off on my 1996 GMC Yukon.

It was computerized, but it could still be worked on by the Average Joe. And work on it, we did.

My father put 6 starters on that thing alone. The first one he put on it took him about an hour, the last one took about ten minutes. I mean, even replacement parts, whether after-market or not, last about as well as vehicles these days.

I can't tell you how many sets of U-Joints that Yukon had replaced. I recognized the sound. Knew it well. That job started out difficult, but hey, once you do it enough times, forty-five minutes later--VOILA! All new for a year.

It was nothing for the Yukon to break down. Nothing. But I loved that thing. It was a lifted, jacked-up bubba truck. I could take it through anything. Had a 350 V-8 under the hood & drove like a pooch. Pull a Sherman Tank out of the Kickapoo with it, though it had absolutely no punch. Didn't care, don't like to drive fast. I loved it. But, it needed work. And as my husband is forever telling me, "I'm a carpenter, not a mechanic." It was not an uncommon sight to drive past me while I was on the side of the road, hood up, standing on the tire, knees on the fender, balancing myself over the engine. Butt facing traffic. I'm sure it was quite the spectacle. Talking on my cell phone to my Dad, "I think it's still the distributor cap, Dad."

"We just replaced it."

"I know, but it's making the same sound. Please come get me, I'm in shorts, I'm cold and I'm stranded in a neighborhood at the foot of Western. Lydia I think. I don't feel too safe, please come get me...." And he would. And we'd go get parts. And I'd help him just like I did when I was a kid. And we'd get me back on the road again. It was a pain, to be sure, but it was nice to know--WE COULD FIX IT.

Radiator needed replacing, dash board lights were out, on it's 6th starter and possibly it's 4th set of U-Joints, the a/c filter was cracked, a rope tied onto the passenger seat to bring it forward and backward. Didn't care. It was my only Boy Truck I'd ever had and ever will have. I loved it.

One day I went out looking at vehicles and a few days later, I came home with a 2003 Chevy TrailBlazer.

I cried for two weeks and to this day, miss my Yukon. I even called the dealer to try to get it back. They'd already sold it. I even drove through their lot, but the Yukon was gone. I cried some more.

I'm not going to tell you that the TrailBlazer is a horrible vehicle (heaven forbid it overhear me), but what I am going to tell you is: IT'S IMPOSSIBLE FOR THE AVERAGE JOE TO WORK ON.
Case in point. Ever have a headlamp go out on the thing? You own a TrailBlazer? Ever have the headlamp go out on it? Go ahead, pop the hood and look around. Then, tell me, how do you change your headlamp? That's right, pull the book out. Check it out, see what it says. I know. I pulled it out on Saturday morning. Third time the headlamp has been out--same one EVERY TIME. Even the after-market bulbs work as well as the ones from Chevy. THEY BITE, TOO.

So, the first time the headlamp was replaced, a friend of ours who works on vehicles for a living, showed me and Dad how to get the headlamp replaced. The second time, one of Birdy's buddies figured it out after I told him what to do.

Needless to say, Dad says, "See what the book says."

Would you like for me to tell you what the book says? NOTHING.

Zip.

Nada.

ZE-ROOOOOO.

You know why? Chevy wants you to take your vehicle to a CERTIFIED individual for a kick-back, that's why. There you go, I figured it all out.

Know what the book says? It demonstrates how to change the TAIL LIGHTS. I looked up HEADLAMP and got TAIL LIGHT.

How does that work?

Explain That One.

Why don't they just give an entry for Headlamp and in the description say: Well, stupid, take it to a shop and have a certified technician change the light bulb because we don't even want you to do that.

Impressive. I think that type of impressive falls under Cutsomer Satisfaction, which happens to be at an all-time low with car manufacturers. Or maybe the reporters and news channels are just lying.

So, after a few pokes and prods, Dad and I had the FRONT BUMPER OFF, and he changed the light bulb. Of course, I couldn't send my husband over to do this at Dad's, although he's witnessed it once, he's a carpenter, not a mechanic.

Saturday morning, having been subjected to several hours of torrential downpours, Birdy and I were preparing to leave for the Quad Cities to attend Dustin's baseball tournaments.

I woke up at 0300, not in delighted anticipation of our trip, our weekend, or the tournament, but I woke up because my husband didn't follow the rules.

The Rules are as follows:

If you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, barf, or go hunting, and it's a weekend, PUT THAT YELLA DOG OUTTA THE ROOM.

Or, the yella dog will annoy me to no end. If it's past midnight, that spook thinks it's time for breakfast and will annoy me until I cave, get up and feed her.

Of course, she's happy. SHE'S ALWAYS HAPPY.

I fed her at 0400. That's what time I gave up on sleep and decided to plot my revenge against her and my husband.

Dustin was asleep on our floor, and being a product of my genetics, he, too, was now awake for the day.

Birdy? Snoring like a buzz-saw.

So, when the sun finally came up, I took my TrailBlazer to my Dad and we changed the headlamp.

I loaded the TrailBlazer while my husband made dirty dishes for me to clean up.

We got on the road about 4 hours before game-time and left for the Quad Cities anxious to get some ball in before the rain got that far north.

Dustin, having puked at 0515 that morning, was still complaining of a headache. He never had a fever, didn't really act sick, so I just assumed it was a sour stomach and proceeded with the day. He went to roll down his window, and I heard a funny noise.

It was a familiar funny noise, to be sure, and I said, "Roll it up and leave it alone. I will run it by O's on Monday. IT'S GOING TO COME OFF THE TRACK AND GET STUCK IN THE DOWN POSITION, DUSTIN, DON'T ROLL IT DOWN AGAIN. OKAY?"

I know this from experience. It happened with the other passenger side window. Same issue. Same kids.

Not the kids I buried in the backyard, but these kids. Dustin is one of These Kids.

"Okay, Mom."

That's settled.

So, can someone explain to me why, when he complained he was hot and I rolled MY window down for him, did the then feel compelled to ROLL HIS WINDOW DOWN???

Oh, yes. And then it went *thunk*.

"What did I say?" I asked. "Are you kidding me? Why? Why did you do that?"

I'm driving down the road with a crack-carpenter at the wheel--NOT A MECHANIC.

All my tools are in the garage in my work basket that I unloaded for the weekend. Are you kidding me? You just need to pop the panel off and put the window up. Tape it into place, pop the panel back on and ta-dah! All fixed. But I have no tools and I need tools.

We're 15 minutes from the Quad Cities. It's a Saturday, where am I gonna get that fixed? Who is going to help me at 1130 on a Saturday? .

Oh, no.

Not so simple.

We end up at a Chevy dealer. I could hear the ticker clicking...ching ching ching ching...

You guessed it: $140 for gloried fluorescent masking tape. Of course the tape is VISIBLE.And once again, here I am, driving down the road with TAPE on my window looking like--you guessed it--WHITE TRASH.

Going to a high-dollar tournament with pay-to-play independent teams, surrounded by Escalades, Hummers, half-a-million dollar Winnebago's, Excursions, Lexus, Four-Runners, Mercedes & BMWs...and I HAVE FLUORESCENT TAPE ON MY FREAKIN' WINDOW.

Let's not forget that the rain is a-comin'.

I was mortified. Not just because of the tape, but I was about to spend a buttload of cash on dinner. Another nice chunk of change on a motel room that I probably didn't need because--you guessed it--they called the tournament by 0630 Sunday morning due to RAIIINNNN!!!

Argh.

Not having had any sleep, my stress-level was slightly elevated over The Masking Tape Incident, and having been on a diet for a month and not consuming alcohol, waking up to a child I could never determine if he was ill or not, I managed to drink five or six too many at dinner. Yeah. I basically drank dinner.

BOOOOZER.

Woops.

I put myself and Dustin to bed around nine. I popped a couple aspirin and called it good. Stick a fork in me, darlin', I'm done.

Around midnight, Mr. Considerate stumbles into the room, promptly stubbing his toe on our cooler while simultaneously flipping on a light.

Of course, he woke me up.

Birdy could wake the dead.

I tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep, but it was so stinking hot in our room, the rain was pummelling the roof. I got up and cracked the window. I crawled back into bed and kicked off the covers. I tossed and turned some more, "Am I drunk? Why am I so hot? Why is the room spinning? Why do I feel THIS bad?" Seriously, if I'm drunk, surely I can't string lucid thoughts together this well...

I threw the window open wide and went back to bed, only to feel a nasty rumbling in my lower-intestine. And it said:

This ain't beer, Darlin'...

...and I took off like a shot for the bathroom.

A few moments later, feeling clammy, I crawled back into bed...and then It began. A wishy-washy low in my tummy, travelling to my esophagus at warp-speed. I suddenly had a mental image of Dustin leaning over the toilet, yakking his guts out.

My turn.

Nope, not beer.

Bug.

GREAAATT.

Just great.

I finally dozed off around 2 or 3, only to have my husband wake me up at 0500 and ask, "Did you set an alarm?"

Who needs an alarm with you around? I ask myself. Really? Who GETS sleep with you around, honey? What's the point in an alarm clock when I'm married to you?
He finally runs me out of the bed, once again, in total agitation. I tell him I was sick in the middle of the night and he tells me I was drunk.

I was not, ButtHead. A hang-over doesn't start with the lower intestine. It starts with a headache and puking. And I rarely barf over booze.

He's hounding me to get in the shower, I'm trying to get my stuff ready, when my phone starts playing a tune. "Tourney cancelled due to rain, have a safe trip home."

There you have it.

We begin to pack, I get ready, I get Dustin ready and we depart.

I'm exhausted.

We had breakfast with one of the coaches and his family and drove home.

I slept the whole way home, left the truck loaded and went back to bed. I stayed there for four hours. I still don't feel all that well and have hardly eaten today.

Birdy went mushroom hunting while I slept.

Dustin laid down because he still didn't feel all that well. While I was sleeping, he left me a note taped to the wall outside my bedroom that said:

Dear, Mom

I am going to Grammy's.

Love, Dustin

There were two attempts at smiley faces.

I finally get up, deciding I need to run a couple errands. Birdy had returned with mushrooms, cleaned them and put himself in the recliner so the tv had something to watch. While the tv was watching my husband, I ran off to do errands.

I like to back my truck in the garage, so upon my return, I pull the truck up in the white rock and back in.

SSSSSSsssssSSSSSSsssss.

Huh?

Are you kidding me?

Is there a puncture in the gas line?

Oh, no. Nothing so elaborate, Dawn...there's a piece of white rock STUCK in your tire. How fascinating, I'm thinking, as I observe this phenomenon. I didn't realize my tires were that bad. Really.

I call my Dad.

"What do I do?"

"Bring it over here," he sighs with exasperation.

Halfway there, I'm driving on a rim. No lie, my parents live two doors down.

"Where's the spare?" my Dad asks.

"Under the car."

He jacks my truck up and finds the spare and cannot get it off the truck frame. "Get the book out," my Dad tells me.

This isn't looking good.

He reads the information, "Where's your jack?"

"Beats me."

So, we begin the hunt for the jack. The jack, the book says, jacks up to the spare and hooks onto the post and unscrews the tire it holds in place.

Only problem is THE JACK DOESN'T REACH THE POST TO UNSCREW THE TIRE IT HOLDS IN PLACE.

Are you kidding me?

My girlfriend, Toni, then texts me and suggests taking the vehicle to Rocket Tire, a local business. I'd have to say by the name of the outfit, I shouldn't have to explain what they do there.

I text Toni that taking the vehicle to Rocket Tire would require a wrecker and at this point, my idea of a wrecker is NOT a tow, but a sledge hammer...

My father finally becomes frustrated enough to take the flat tire off and repair it himself.

Because he can still fix a flat. He's a member of the baby-boomer generation that can do a little of everything. Thank God. He can fix my flat or he can lay in the recliner and let the tv watch him.

My Dad is multi-talented.

As he's messing with my tire, he's having difficulty getting the hose to his air compressor off the hydraulic can-smasher his friend made for him as a retirement gift.

Only my Dad would have a hydraulic can-smasher.

Now, he's found something else that needs fixing. Lord.

With the air compressor hose in hand, zip gun in place, he takes my tire off and we locate the leak.

We spend ten more minutes discussing the pros and cons of a patch versus a plug.

Finally I say to him, "Plug the bitch. If it goes flat, you'll just have to come get me is all."

Yay.

We get the tire plugged, can't find any leaks, and as he's sharpening his knife to cut the extra plug material off, it occurs to me, "What the hell am I going to do without him? What? There is so much information in that head I won't get it out in the rest of this lifetime. What am I ever going to do without him?"

I thank him profusely, collect my child, and return home to my husband who is still in the recliner, hunting channel watching him.

So, now I get to call O's on Monday and see if he can help me locate this part to get my window fixed without having to buy from Chevy. I'll see if O's outfit can actually fix said window. Then I need to see about tires for the TrailBlazer. Not to mention that I have to find an evening next week so I can help my Dad change my brakes because they are squeaking to beat the band, and the fan we had put in the TrailBlazer a year & a half ago to the tune of $800 is acting-up. But, a certified technician did that work, so SURELY it should have lasted...but it's not. Not to mention that the Service Engine Soon light works great...and that tells me there's probably a bad O2 sensor going on my truck...and then there's the Service 4wheel Drive light that I have no idea what THAT means. Nevermind that the book doesn't tell me, either. It actually says, "See a certified technician." Woo.

I'm well-aware that I probably need a new vehicle, but that's not in the budget at this time. My husband needs a new vehicle and it's not in our budget for at least a year. And of course, he's going to want the VERY BEST, because he'll be taking it hunting and he only has the VERY BEST when it comes to hunting...

I just thought I'd share my weekend dilemma with everyone. I mean, really, who gives a rat's ass?

Nobody.

And I'm good with that.

I'm aware it could have been worse. Thankfully it wasn't. But, just the same...they don't make 'em like the used to.

I guess it's just a better way to keep the economy chugging along...certified technicians...as opposed to making a piece of equipment that actually LASTS and RUNS like it should when you pay that much for said equipment.

And Washington cannot figure out why customer satisfaction is at an all-time low with the vehicle manufacturers in this country.

Hello?

I'm just your average housewife, and I'm pretty sure I have that answer.

Birdy's Bird

It has long been a well-known fact that my husband hates to have his picture taken. HATES IT.

I paid through the nose to have Jill Sanders come out here several years ago to do family portraits. The kids and I were fine with it. Birdy threw a huge fit.

"I hate to have my picture taken. My Aunt Peggy used to herd us all together when we were kids and shove a camera in our faces. I hate to have my picture taken."

Really? Well, sugar plum, suck it up because not only are you going to have your picture made by Jill with us, you're going to LIKE it, too.

That was five years ago. We're long overdue, to say the least. I'm hoping that the Chris & Kris Team will be able to rectify that problem later this summer. Which means I have until later this summer to lose the extra ass I'm carting around. And just to be sure I'm minus the extra ass I'm carting around, I've already started The Diet.

Although I'm pretty sure I can afford to live off the fat of the land for quite some time, as I type, my stomach is growling.

That said, I have finally, after 9 years together, I figured out how to get my husband to stand still for a photograph.

Birdy arrived home from his Big Turkey Hunt this morning and as usual, insisted I bring my camera outside and make his picture with his kill.

Little does he know I've signed myself up for yet another photography class and I have an assignment to complete: Portrait from the waist up.

Great, now which individual is this house is going to want their portrait made from the waist up? None of them. I'm sure of it.

I instruct him on where to sit, what I want in the background, and what I'm doing with my camera:

"I'm in this photography class and she showed me something ELSE I don't know about this camera. I bracket my F-Stops automatically. So, I'm going to bracket my F-Stops and it's going to give me a different exposure each time I take the picture. I will take three pictures in a row. So, please be patient."

"Okay." He's all about this.

So, I pose Birdy with his kill. He's happy. He's content.

Then, it hits me...why can't I use BIRDY as my subject?

"Alright, I have an assignment," I explain. "I need my subject from the waist up. Pick that there bird up and throw him over your shoulder. I'll do the moving, just stand there and look remotely happy."

I start to click away.

"Smile."

"I am smiling."

No, that's a grimace, Birdy. But, whatever, I can see your teeth.

After about ten minutes he starts to complain. But that doesn't matter. My homework is done.

So, later this summer (perhaps in the fall if The Diet is any indication) I can get my husband to sit still for family portraits if I let him hold something dead. He may sit still most of the afternoon. At least until his critter starts to smell...

Personally, I think the shirt makes the photograph, don't you agree?

Grunt. "Me Og. Me bring home dinner." Grunt.

That's my man. Ain't nobody 'rasslin' me for that...