Love, Jimmie

Sigh.  So this is how my Friday ended.

I told you.  I told you that I’m a terrible person and I 100% deserve all these car issues because I let Murphy ruin Daniel’s shoes. For the record, Murphy ruined a pair of my own, too, when he did his business in the garage and I stepped in it in the dark one morning and fell down.  I hate that cat.

I wrote you a whole post about how my car croaked and how I got a new battery and everything was hunky dory except that was a whole post of misinformation.  Right after I got my new battery and the assurance that all was fine, my car wouldn’t start.  That non-starter began a long and drawn out saga titled “Drama: Jimmie’s Car”.

Over the last few months, I used up a large percentage of my messaging allowance sending pictures of this nature to Pee-tah and asking “What is wrong with it?! It won’t start!”  Pee-tah responded with a diagnosis of “bad connection” and a prescription of “wiggle the cables around until the connection is good and it starts.”  This worked for a time, and I learned that carrying a lot of paper towels in my car was a good idea as my hands began to resemble those of auto mechanics from all the wiggling of cables.

After that no longer worked, Advanced Auto Parts made a diagnosis of “needs a shim” and prescribed “place new shim on terminal and whack down with a wrench.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that whacking my battery terminals with a heavy object was an effective way to start a vehicle.

When that began to fail, Slim made a diagnosis of “loose cables” and prescribed “tightening everything, so much so that no one can get the bolts off ever again.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that Slim is really very cute when he works on my car.

After some time, Daddy-O and Coach had to make the diagnosis of “needs new battery cables and shims altogether” and prescribed “buying new ones at Auto Zone.”  They also prescribed “using a Dremmel tool to loosen up those nuts and bolts that Slim so faithfully tightened on.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that nothing is more comforting to me than having my Daddy-O work on my car.

Meineke had to then rescue me and made the diagnosis of “loose cables, again” and prescribed “Jimmie, I say this with love – please never get under the hood of your car, ever.  The metal you have been whacking on with a hammer is so mangled we cannot recognize it.”  This worked for a time, and since Meineke charged me nothing for that visit, I deducted that they are honest and forthright.  They will always receive my business.

Meineke had to rescue me a second time and made another the diagnosis of “new shim did not properly crush onto terminal” and prescribed “remove shim and tighten mercilessly.”  They also prescribed “here’s some tissues, please stop crying.” This worked for a time until the next time my car wouldn’t start, yet I still will give my business to Meineke as they are honest and forthright.

All of this brought me to Friday.  I’d like to note a few things here, some things I learned through this process.

• There’s a reason why auto mechanics always have grease-stained hands.  That stuff does not come off.
• Having grease-stained hands is not a good look for me.
• Men (numerous men, men with mechanic uniforms on, men who make eye contact and then look immediately away, men who speed up to rush past you when moments before they were merely strolling, men with nothing better to do but sit on the curb and smoke) who see a woman banging around under the hood of her car with a hammer will not stop and help her unless they work at Jersey Mike’s in Madison, Tennessee.  Chivalry is dead. Except in Madison, Tennessee.
• Repeatedly banging on your battery terminal with a hammer will give Slim apoplexy. It’s probably wise to not tell Slim everything.
• Having a vehicle that repeatedly won’t start will make me miss a visit to Woney’s house when Squash and Nurse Bananahammock are there, and I will get sulky.
• My new boss is really nice.  I know this because she had to rescue me from the Publix parking lot where I went to get cold medicine and cough drops on my lunch break. My humiliation at having to ask for that rescue after being employed for only three weeks was lessened ever so slightly by her niceness.

I’ve put the hammer away.  I’m out of paper towels.  I now have calluses on my hands from all the mechanic work I’ve done.  I know more about this car than I ever wanted to know, and it does not fill me with joy that I know it.  It’s a marvelous thing that I am independently wealthy and also made of money because my car is now scheduled for a diagnostic session to determine why it intermittently won’t start and a catalytic converter repair, left over from last year’s separate car saga titled “Drama: Jimmie’s Car Falls Spectacularly Apart”.

You want to know the part that really ticks me off?  I’ve been stranded numerous times lately with this car, in parking lots and at gas stations, and in not a single instance was I doing something fun.  I bought no new shoes.  I was not making out with Dwayne Johnson in some swanky hotel.  I wasn’t even making out with Slim!  I wasn’t eating chocolate.  I was doing boring stuff like buying gasoline and cough drops.  Huff.  How annoying.

Please send money.