Not to sound like a 1950s suburbanite, but when it comes to my automobile, I haven’t a clue what really makes that vehicle run. I depend on the car to tell me if something’s wrong.
It’s a sweet deal as dashboard lights come on whenever the tire pressure is low or I need gas. A bell chimes if I forget to turn off the lights or leave the keys in the ignition.
Best of all, my husband keeps up with major maintenance issues, so I’m on autopilot most of the time.
Recently, though, my car was due for an oil change, and I told my husband I’d take the car in because, I was thinking, how hard can it be to get the oil changed.
Certainly easier than replacing the windshield wiper blades.
When the rains started up earlier this year, the streaks on my windshield were a red flare that the wiper blades had dry rotted during the long drought. I was in front of the auto parts store, so I pulled in, thinking I’d run right in, get some replacements and be ready for the threatening thunderstorm.
Forget about a less-than 10 minute errand for something as seemingly straight-forward as windshield wiper blade refills. The clerk had at least six questions about my car before we even got to the wiper issue.
And, of course, his first question was one I didn’t know the answer to – what length blades did I need.
“They’re different sizes?” I said, puzzlement written all over my face, and I told him I’d text my husband to get the size of the wipers. The clerk looked at me, sighed, and then said he’d not only find the right wiper blades but he’d also put them on the car for me.
Sweet.
Which is why I felt empowered to take my car in for an oil change. My husband used to keep a case or two of motor oil in our garage for the numerous oil changes three teen-age drivers require.
But with advances in engines and more computer-driven parts, a stop at one of the local quick oil-change business seemed the most economical path.
I pulled into the bay, handed my keys over to the mechanic and sat down in the lobby to leaf through a “Motor Trend” magazine.
A few minutes later, he returned and asked if I wanted petroleum-based oil or synthetic oil. My first thought was “there’s a difference in oil that comes out of the ground and goes into the car?” and my second one was “why does something that should be so easy require a master’s degree in engineering.”
I didn’t have a clue what kind of oil to use, so I texted my husband. While I was waiting for a reply, the nice man behind the counter tried to explain the pros and cons of synthetic and petroleum-based oil.
I nodded and tried to sound like I was keeping up, but he lost me about the time the issues of oil weight and temperature under pressure came up.
Then there were questions about the oil filter and how many miles I wanted to wait until my next oil change. I texted my husband again with those questions, and we finally agreed on a plan of action.
Thirty minutes later, I left with fresh oil in the car, a new oil filter and a sticker on my windshield reminding me to take care of my car’s needs on a regular basis.
My husband said whenever my car needs the tires rotated – because he only has so many text messages on his cell phone plan – he’ll be happy to take care of that maintenance item for me.
Sweet.