Extreme Elimination Challenge: Car Repair Addition

I have, as you may recall, mentioned my issues with my car before. To make a long story short, there is something wrong with it. The check engine light has been on on for, oh, about three years. It runs fine for a car that has 108,000+ miles and has always received absolutely indifferent maintenance. The engine is still fucking there, so whatever is wrong cannot, to my mind, be that goddamn important.

Unfortunately, though, I live in area that requires car emissions tests. Check engine light=fail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I made a good faith effort to try to cheat, but alas, it's not as easy as it used to be and I was unable to procure a crooked mechanic who would pass me for $50 cash and a photo of my boobs.

I was not for a moment naive enough to believe that this problem could actually be fixed. Two years ago I pissed about $600 into a hole before some clever lad worked out a cheat that got me through the test (a cheat I was unable to duplicate this time, god knows I tried). Instead I faced the problem head on.

I called the dealership and made an appointment. "Hi. Lemme tell you what's up. My car is not going to pass emissions. The check engine light is on because my car throws a code for a crank shaft positioning sensor--that's always been the issue, and I know it's still the issue because I've hooked it up to a code reader. There is nothing wrong with that sensor, it's been replaced at least twice. I don't expect you to fix whatever the problem is, I don't care what the problem is. I just need to spend $450 so that I can get an emissions waiver. Do what you need to do to make that happen, but that's what I want."

Sensor? Not broken. Car? Not broken. Customer? Not stupid.

Car gets dropped off last night, phone call this morning. The Mensa representative at the dealership called me to let me know my crank shaft positioning sensor is bad, and his Odyssey of the Mind partner in crime on the floor has all these theories as to why that might be.

*blink*

Listen up, Braintrust. The sensor probably isn't bad, because like I said, that's always been the code it's thrown. But go ahead and replace it. Whatever turns you on, buddy. Seriously, I'm at peace with my check engine light. Please do me the courtesy of not fucking insulting my intelligence in the meantime.

"I didn't realize you had this problem before."

Look, asshole. I'm not your girlfriend; try listening to me. I know I told you that because every conversation with you people scars me permanently.

"Well, when your check engine light came back on then, why didn't you bring it back in?"

Because I was out of cars to borrow! And because, like most higher order mammals, I can learn to recognize patterns. I bring car in. I spend money. Car stays broken. After three weeks, the novelty wore off.

"Well, we'll replace the sensor and go from there."

Mmmkay. Bye.

I sit at work trying to keep the Dipshittery Express from flying off the tracks while trying to decide if it would be unseemly for a 31 year old to take up cutting. The phone rings.

"Hi. This is Braintrust from the dealership. We put in the new crankshaft position sensor, and it didn't work."

Really? Shocking. Do continue.

"So we took it back out and put the old one in, and then our tech did some stuff, and it didn't work, and then he did something and then the engine didn't even work and we thought oh shit that's bad and then some other stuff happened and now he thinks he's a woman trapped in a man's body and this one time at band camp..."

Braintrust? Hey. Lemme make this easy for you. The car has 108,000+ miles on it and it runs. I'm not spending thousands of dollars so you guys can go spelunking under the hood. I am there to spend money for an emissions waiver. That's all. So tell you what. Tell JimBob he can do whatever he wants. Seriously. He can do whatever he wants until my bill reaches $445. At $445, I want him to put all the screws back, and get out of my car.

"Well, he says it could be this..."

Great. Fine. Get him out of my car when he's done $445 worth of work. Buh-bye.

A very little bit of time passes before Braintrust calls me back to let me know that I've already pretty much spent that money, and can pick up the car whenever.

Perfect! Great. Thursday is looking up.

But then I start to think. Despite my saying repeatedly that the SOLE reason I have for bringing my car in was to spend $450 for emissions work, I wonder if I did. I mean, he might have done other work that wouldn't count towards that $450, so maybe he needs to throw in an air filter or new hamster or something. I call.

Braintrust is gone and someone else answers. And I explain the situation.

"Well. I have your bill here, and it's $458."

That's fine. I just need to verify that enough of that is money that I've pissed away on you not fixing a problem that you can't identify.

"Braintrust is gone, you see. And the tech that worked on it left at 3:30. I can call Braintrust on his cell phone."

Wait a sec. Don't you have an itemized invoice there? 'Cuz your little partner in crime told me I could pick the car up tonight.

"Well, let me call him on his cell and call you back."

I know then that this is going to end with someone getting called a motherfucker, and I'm equally confident that someone isn't going to be me.

"Hi, this is Mensa at the dealer."

Mmmhmmm?

"If what you're looking to do is pass emissions, then you can't pick your car up tonight. There are a couple of concerns..."

And that is when my left eyeball fell out of my head.

I don't CARE about your concerns. I don't CARE what the problem is. I told you people from the first conversation that I was knowingly throwing money into a hole to get an emissions waiver. I didn't believe for a second you would actually fix anything. THIS HANGS IT--AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER BUY NISSAN AGAIN. I don't give a shit what you do to the car, I would be perfectly happy to give you $450 to buy your wife something that means she'll have to touch your penis. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS ANY SIMPLER THAN I HAVE.

"Whenever you go for an emissions waiver, everything has to be documented in a really specific way."

I cannot IMAGINE a parallel universe in which I gave a shit LESS. I told you what I wanted you to do and why. I was clear. I was specific. I was assertive. I don't know how to explain this any better, Fucko. You people make me want to cave in my own forehead with a ball-peen hammer.

"Your car will be ready tomorrow."

Awesome, and only 24 hours later than it should have been. No time at all, really, considering all the shit you didn't accomplish.

My conclusion is this: I really will not be buying another Nissan. The cars themselves are mostly fine, but they hire absolute fucktards to work for their dealers.

If they give me any shit tomorrow, I'm paying with the goddamn title; getting the emergency bridesmaid dress out of the trunk, and going over to the Toyota dealer.

On An Evening's Shopping

*sigh*

Okay, I think we covered this a couple of years ago but it seems to be time again.

Let's review:

1. Not all women with big boobs have a six pack and the hips of a ten-year-old boy.

2. Women with REAL big boobs often desire underwires. Otherwise, our tits are sad and smooshy. My boobs? Scoff at shelf bras

3. Curvy girls are not all elderly fatasses who should be forced to wear woolen swim muumuus.

I am getting married, for fuck's sake, and have a week in Mexico with various delightful alcoholic beverages being brought to me and my new husband to look forward to. MY TITS SHOULD LOOK GLORIOUS WHILE THIS IS GOING ON.

I have a demand. Someone needs to supply it. Otherwise capitalism fails. If I can't find a bathing suit, the terrorists have won.

What I Did Tonight.

This evening? I changed my own car battery?

I can make a pie. I make a mean motherfucking eggplant parmesan. And now? Now I can change a car battery.

I love The Boy, yes. But maybe the folks should negotiate for more goats in the bride price or something.

And you know what? This totally goes on the list on of Shit My Dad Was Right About. Working on cars sucks balls.

Car? Fail. Shitty TV FTW

So.

My car tags are expired. They have been expired for some time--such niceties often escape my notice. However, now that they've caught the notice of the PoPo, it finally merits attention. I figure if I don't do something about it quickly, I'm going to jail. And, unlike The Boy, I don't think that I'm bound for "Sexy Jail." I will just plan to continue doing all my underpants pillow fighting on chick date night while the menfolk game.

Now, the Bitchin' Sentra is not a bad little car. She starts. She runs. She blows hot or cool air on me per my request. She has never abandoned me by the side of the road. In short, she's 1000 times better than my previous boyfriends AND my ex-husband. That said, though, she's won't pass inspection. She didn't two years ago, she won't know. Stubborn bitch.

Short story long, there's a fucked up censor. Or not. The bloody thing has been replaced twice, that's not really what the problem is, and frankly I don't give a tinker's damn anyway. I really don't want to go $1000 in the hole to fix a problem on A CAR THAT RUNS.

Today? Computer fiddling, drive cycle following, blah blah blah. It's fucking JULY, and TOO HOT TO BE DRIVING AIMLESSLY IN TRAFFIC. And I still didn't pass.

Hot, tired, and cranky--I arrived home. Where there is a big tramp on Wife Swamp, and I'm waiting for SuperNanny to start. I don't have cable; I watch terrible television. I have come to like terrible television. I like to feel superior to people with their fucking functional, legal cars. Bastards.

The Weekend In Review

Not much going on, really, on the personal front.

Good weekend on the home front. Friday night was a quiet evening in, during which the boy and I finally devoted ourselves to our wedding contract. Despite the fact that The Boy and I are agnostic goyim, we decided to make a brit ahuvim part of our marriage. Oddly, two articulate and open people can actually have a pretty hard time saying "I expect this from you and from me in our marriage." We do, however, finally have it well in hand.

Saturday, baby shower of a family friend and his lovely wife. We attended their wedding last year, and now they're expecting. It's wild, really, he and I used to play Star Wars together--hell, our moms were pregnant together. Now he's going to be a DAD. How the FUCK does that happen?

Saturday night? Birthday party for T-Del and Bunny. A glorious night, October in July. Friends, good beer, yummy snacks. Bourbon slush, which is TOO TASTY and a damn shame I'd never heard of it before. Nothing like drunken chit-chat and just random, happy time.

Sunday? Couching. Not much of one anyway.

This is all a good thing, as it took the edge of the idiocy of today, and the week ahead.

Secretary of Japanese Game Shows

So, today Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson explained the mortgage crisis to people. Here, for your enjoyment, my literary interpretation.

"Because people are dumb, and bankers are greedy, there are a lot of motherfuckers who have houses they cannot afford. You know why? Because no damn money, divided by 12, equals BROKE. They are going to lose their houses. Can't help'em. Bummer. Thanks for coming, cocktails will not be served on the promenade deck."

On a lighter note, the best show in America is now on television. The Japanese really embrace the strengths of the medium of television--that is--the purveying of bright, loud, annoying shit. It would actually be better if we weren't burdened with the stupid mixing in of typical American reality show garbage. I'd rather just see flummoxed Americans getting yelled at in Japanese. That would be better than CANDY.