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Entry tags:
Fun and exciting facts about today:
1) It's Thursday.
2) The universe persists in confirming my belief that strangers will be nice to me.
3) My car has two new tires and a new right-front tie rod! w00t!
The less bullet-pointy version:
Okay, let me just preface this right up front with the admission that I am, apparently, when it comes to my car, a little bit slow. I try to be all capable and knowing-what-the-hell-is-going-on, but, really, automotive stuff sort of only snags my attention when, for instance, the car won't go anymore.
Anyway. So last night - Wednesday night, I might point out, and you might recall how I spent last Wednesday night - on my way home from Write Club at eleven o'clock in the cold and dark, I hit a pot hole or something making a left turn through the last intersection on my way home. There was a moderately horrendous clunking noise, seemingly from the left side of the car. Hm, I thought, I hope that wasn't something important. But the car kept going, so I forgot about it pretty much instantaneously.
This morning, at 7:15, in, again, the cold and dark, I went out to start my car and go to work. I was more focuses on the thin coating of frost on the windshield than the way the car was handling as I left the parking lot, although the car was in fact handling like crap. Hmm, I thought. Is it icy or slushy or something? Maybe I should clear that frost off. But the heater was running and already making a little headway, and it was really cold, like, minus two, so I figured I'd just try to get to work and then deal with it. NB: 'getting to work', in terms of my car, means getting to the giant parking lot from which I catch the bus that takes me to campus so I can walk a block to work. I made it as far as 23 on Washtenaw (like, just out from under the bridge, for those of you who know what I'm talking about) - about a third of the way to work - when the noises the car was making got really alarming, the burnt rubber smell hit, and I finally, finally realized that I had a flat - probably thoroughly wrecked - tire.
When I was seventeen, I lived 45 miles from where I went to high school and drove back and forth alone daily in a 93 Ford Escort named The Fat Little Creep. One night, around midnight, coming home from hanging out with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iuliamentis, I got a flat tire. On the freeway. In the middle of freaking nowhere. I put on the hazards and drove down the shoulder the two miles to the rest stop, called my parents, and then waited in my locked car until they showed up. At that time, my dad proceeded to show me how to change a tire.
Oddly enough, when I'd made it to a gas station on this morning's flat (I would've just stopped in the road and put my hazards on, but a) OMG WASHTENAW RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC and b) I couldn't manage to get the hazard switch to turn on with my mittens on) I did not have a lot of faith in my ability to change my tire, though I was reasonably certain that, somewhere in the depths of my trunk, there would be a factory-issued spare and jack. I called work to tell them I was going to be late, and then attempted, with my mittens on, to call brother #2 (he's local! he has a car! he's mechanically inclined!) on my cell phone. I think I may have managed to dialhelaaspindakaas at some point. There was a lot of cursing and random button-pushing. I probably should have gone indoors, but I wasn't thinking very clearly. Got #2's voice mail. Stared up the road, where I could actually see a Belle Tire from where I stood, and pondered the lameness of calling for a tow across such a tiny distance. Felt like an idiot for not being able to change my own damn tire. Acknowledged that, no, I could not change my own damn tire. Considered calling fairmer, although she was probably also on her way to work. Stood next to my car, trying to choose course of cation.
And that's when a guy across the parking lot called out, "Everything okay?"
"Uh, no," I said, "I've got a flat."
"You wanna put some air in it?"
I looked at my tire. It was now no more than a sadly distressed strip of rubber wrapped loosely around the rim, much like my last flat tire. It occurred to me vaguely that other people manage to have slightly less disastrous flat tires. "No," I said, "It's, uh, really flat."
"You need a tow?" he asked.
"Yeah, I guess so," I said, and went inside the gas station, as did he. Once I got inside, my eyes were sort of tearing up (from the cold-warm transition, not... anything else) and I was blinking a lot as I stared at my cell phone, while the nice stranger and the guy behind the counter both stared at me like they had no idea what to do with me. The nice stranger asked if I had a spare and a jack, and I said I thought I did and went back outside to check.
After I disassembled my entire trunk, I determined that I did have both a spare and a jack, neatly stored in little recessed spaces and bolted into place. I found my tire iron - in a fashionable felt sleeve - which was so cold it tried to adhere to my fingers, and began trying to get the jack free. Wondered whether this was the point at which I should just call a tow truck, because, honestly. Then the nice stranger came over, determined that I had a tire, assured me that he had a jack, and unbolted the tire for me. And changed it for me. And was terribly nice and working with bare hands, which made me feel really bad. He chatted with me - asked where my husband was, or my boyfriend, where I was headed, mentioned that he was on his way to work, too, but had a slow leak - as he put it back in place. After he'd chucked the old tire in my trunk, he introduced himself, and I told him my name and thanked him some more, and he asked whether I'd like a boyfriend, at which point I smiled in the stupid, paralyzed way I do when nice strangers try to pick me up. He told me to take care and went back to his van, and I drove to Belle Tire (a different one, because I'd been there before) and called my dad from the parking lot to ask how many tires I should allow them to sell me.
I apparently also managed to dialiuliamentis's mom in the process - cell phone, mittens, address book entries - as she called me back while I was standing at the counter giving the Belle Tire guy assorted phone numbers under which my car might be on record. I assured her that I was okay and then handed over my keys and went to watch godawful morning television while I waited for the verdict on my car. Morning television? Is really horrible. And if I never hear Diane Sawyer say "nibble his toes for me, Mandy," ever, ever again, it will be too soon. I also read - well, flipped through - an entire issue of Family Circle. And watched Jeff Gordon guest-host on Regis & Kelly. At which point the Belle Tire guy called me over and told me my car need a new right-front tie-rod in addition to two new front tires. He helpfully explained, with illustrative gesturing, how a tie-rod is like the socket of a shoulder joint, and that if you let it get worn out, Very Bad Things Will Happen. So I told him, yes, replace that too. I had just watched another salesman tell a woman, "I'd really like to sell you some tires, but you've got 10,000 miles left on these," so I felt fairly confident that my Belle Tire guy was not randomly making shit up.
After that things moved fairly quickly. I handed over a credit card and they rang me up for only ten times the price of last week's automotive mishap. They gave me back my keys, and then, in possibly the biggest strategic error of the day, I came to work.
So. Now I have a headache. I would use my Rusty-drinking icon except OH WAIT IT'S ALREADY MY DEFAULT. If I had the patience I would paste in some extra drinking Rustys right now just to drive the point home, but as it is, one will have to do.
2) The universe persists in confirming my belief that strangers will be nice to me.
3) My car has two new tires and a new right-front tie rod! w00t!
The less bullet-pointy version:
Okay, let me just preface this right up front with the admission that I am, apparently, when it comes to my car, a little bit slow. I try to be all capable and knowing-what-the-hell-is-going-on, but, really, automotive stuff sort of only snags my attention when, for instance, the car won't go anymore.
Anyway. So last night - Wednesday night, I might point out, and you might recall how I spent last Wednesday night - on my way home from Write Club at eleven o'clock in the cold and dark, I hit a pot hole or something making a left turn through the last intersection on my way home. There was a moderately horrendous clunking noise, seemingly from the left side of the car. Hm, I thought, I hope that wasn't something important. But the car kept going, so I forgot about it pretty much instantaneously.
This morning, at 7:15, in, again, the cold and dark, I went out to start my car and go to work. I was more focuses on the thin coating of frost on the windshield than the way the car was handling as I left the parking lot, although the car was in fact handling like crap. Hmm, I thought. Is it icy or slushy or something? Maybe I should clear that frost off. But the heater was running and already making a little headway, and it was really cold, like, minus two, so I figured I'd just try to get to work and then deal with it. NB: 'getting to work', in terms of my car, means getting to the giant parking lot from which I catch the bus that takes me to campus so I can walk a block to work. I made it as far as 23 on Washtenaw (like, just out from under the bridge, for those of you who know what I'm talking about) - about a third of the way to work - when the noises the car was making got really alarming, the burnt rubber smell hit, and I finally, finally realized that I had a flat - probably thoroughly wrecked - tire.
When I was seventeen, I lived 45 miles from where I went to high school and drove back and forth alone daily in a 93 Ford Escort named The Fat Little Creep. One night, around midnight, coming home from hanging out with
iuliamentis, I got a flat tire. On the freeway. In the middle of freaking nowhere. I put on the hazards and drove down the shoulder the two miles to the rest stop, called my parents, and then waited in my locked car until they showed up. At that time, my dad proceeded to show me how to change a tire.Oddly enough, when I'd made it to a gas station on this morning's flat (I would've just stopped in the road and put my hazards on, but a) OMG WASHTENAW RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC and b) I couldn't manage to get the hazard switch to turn on with my mittens on) I did not have a lot of faith in my ability to change my tire, though I was reasonably certain that, somewhere in the depths of my trunk, there would be a factory-issued spare and jack. I called work to tell them I was going to be late, and then attempted, with my mittens on, to call brother #2 (he's local! he has a car! he's mechanically inclined!) on my cell phone. I think I may have managed to dial
helaaspindakaas at some point. There was a lot of cursing and random button-pushing. I probably should have gone indoors, but I wasn't thinking very clearly. Got #2's voice mail. Stared up the road, where I could actually see a Belle Tire from where I stood, and pondered the lameness of calling for a tow across such a tiny distance. Felt like an idiot for not being able to change my own damn tire. Acknowledged that, no, I could not change my own damn tire. Considered calling fairmer, although she was probably also on her way to work. Stood next to my car, trying to choose course of cation.And that's when a guy across the parking lot called out, "Everything okay?"
"Uh, no," I said, "I've got a flat."
"You wanna put some air in it?"
I looked at my tire. It was now no more than a sadly distressed strip of rubber wrapped loosely around the rim, much like my last flat tire. It occurred to me vaguely that other people manage to have slightly less disastrous flat tires. "No," I said, "It's, uh, really flat."
"You need a tow?" he asked.
"Yeah, I guess so," I said, and went inside the gas station, as did he. Once I got inside, my eyes were sort of tearing up (from the cold-warm transition, not... anything else) and I was blinking a lot as I stared at my cell phone, while the nice stranger and the guy behind the counter both stared at me like they had no idea what to do with me. The nice stranger asked if I had a spare and a jack, and I said I thought I did and went back outside to check.
After I disassembled my entire trunk, I determined that I did have both a spare and a jack, neatly stored in little recessed spaces and bolted into place. I found my tire iron - in a fashionable felt sleeve - which was so cold it tried to adhere to my fingers, and began trying to get the jack free. Wondered whether this was the point at which I should just call a tow truck, because, honestly. Then the nice stranger came over, determined that I had a tire, assured me that he had a jack, and unbolted the tire for me. And changed it for me. And was terribly nice and working with bare hands, which made me feel really bad. He chatted with me - asked where my husband was, or my boyfriend, where I was headed, mentioned that he was on his way to work, too, but had a slow leak - as he put it back in place. After he'd chucked the old tire in my trunk, he introduced himself, and I told him my name and thanked him some more, and he asked whether I'd like a boyfriend, at which point I smiled in the stupid, paralyzed way I do when nice strangers try to pick me up. He told me to take care and went back to his van, and I drove to Belle Tire (a different one, because I'd been there before) and called my dad from the parking lot to ask how many tires I should allow them to sell me.
I apparently also managed to dial
iuliamentis's mom in the process - cell phone, mittens, address book entries - as she called me back while I was standing at the counter giving the Belle Tire guy assorted phone numbers under which my car might be on record. I assured her that I was okay and then handed over my keys and went to watch godawful morning television while I waited for the verdict on my car. Morning television? Is really horrible. And if I never hear Diane Sawyer say "nibble his toes for me, Mandy," ever, ever again, it will be too soon. I also read - well, flipped through - an entire issue of Family Circle. And watched Jeff Gordon guest-host on Regis & Kelly. At which point the Belle Tire guy called me over and told me my car need a new right-front tie-rod in addition to two new front tires. He helpfully explained, with illustrative gesturing, how a tie-rod is like the socket of a shoulder joint, and that if you let it get worn out, Very Bad Things Will Happen. So I told him, yes, replace that too. I had just watched another salesman tell a woman, "I'd really like to sell you some tires, but you've got 10,000 miles left on these," so I felt fairly confident that my Belle Tire guy was not randomly making shit up. After that things moved fairly quickly. I handed over a credit card and they rang me up for only ten times the price of last week's automotive mishap. They gave me back my keys, and then, in possibly the biggest strategic error of the day, I came to work.
So. Now I have a headache. I would use my Rusty-drinking icon except OH WAIT IT'S ALREADY MY DEFAULT. If I had the patience I would paste in some extra drinking Rustys right now just to drive the point home, but as it is, one will have to do.