So, I got out of work today and drove to the bank, like I always do on Friday. I parked the car, deposited my paycheck, got back in the car and my gearshift (automatic) was locked in park.
I assumed that I'd made some sort of idiotic operator error. I tried getting out of the car, getting back in and trying again; I muttered incantations; I attempted to wrench it free from park. Nothing.
At this time, I was in a bank parking lot EXACTLY across the street from our usual mechanic, but had no way to move the car to the mechanic's. So, Thomas came for me, and we went across the street to call a towtruck to tow my car 100 feet.
The towtruck man showed up, stuck my key into a secret hidey hole by the gearshift, unlocked it and told me to have a nice day. Love, love, love for the towtruck man.
But now it locks EVERY single time I put the car in park. I have to manually unlock the gearshift every time.
What do you think, people who are more knowledgeable about this than I (by which I mean everyone)? Is it ok? Should I have it fixed? What, exactly, is the problem?
Blech.
Why me?
In other news, I have a fine new haircut and my dad is coming to visit next week. Hurrah!
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Friday, November 09, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
Attention: Humans Employed at DMV
So, on Friday, I went to renew my car's registration. This year, I actually paid my car tax (imagine!) but there was still a hold on my registration (probably due to the fact that I paid it 30 days before my registration was due to expire instead of in December, when it was due. Oops.) So, I went to the tax office to get a receipt, because I just knew I'd have trouble at the DMV if I went without one.
After waiting in line at the DMV for almost 45 minutes (I think I dozed off for a while), it was finally my turn, and sure enough, the woman said there was a hold on my account and could I produce a receipt. I handed it over proudly.
"Oh, honey," she said, "This is not even your car."
WHAT? Finally, we determined that somehow my payment had been credited to the taxes on my old Saturn, Christine, whom I sold last year.
But here's the really freaky part: The lady was able to transfer the payment to my new car, and even though I was then two dollars short, she gave me my registration anyway. At 4:59 on a Friday.
Coming, as I do, from Maryland, home of the soul-less MVA, where I once saw a man denied a driver's license because the MVA teller-person didn't believe that his middle name was simply "S," I was astounded to see bureaucratic employees making human decisions. Hooray for the Wilmington DMV!
In addition to my fine DMV experiences, we got to see Chris Cubeta and the Liars Club this weekend, which was the awesomest ever. They just kicked so much ass.
SO MUCH!
They did an acoustic set early in the day at Folk's Cafe, and then an incredible, no-holes-barred set at Bella Festa. I even got a song sung just for me!
Then, because they are the best ever, they met us down at Lula's for drinks and a raucous time was had by all. Danny, their manager, crashed over our house and we all argued about the top 10 villians of all time until I became uncomfortable and had to play Journey on the jukebox to lighten the mood.
I was absolutely dead on Sunday. I appear to have given up the hangover in favor of the sleep of the dead. I no longer have nausea or headaches, I just can't wake up. Some have ventured to say that this means I'm getting old, but I won't hear of it.
After waiting in line at the DMV for almost 45 minutes (I think I dozed off for a while), it was finally my turn, and sure enough, the woman said there was a hold on my account and could I produce a receipt. I handed it over proudly.
"Oh, honey," she said, "This is not even your car."
WHAT? Finally, we determined that somehow my payment had been credited to the taxes on my old Saturn, Christine, whom I sold last year.
But here's the really freaky part: The lady was able to transfer the payment to my new car, and even though I was then two dollars short, she gave me my registration anyway. At 4:59 on a Friday.
Coming, as I do, from Maryland, home of the soul-less MVA, where I once saw a man denied a driver's license because the MVA teller-person didn't believe that his middle name was simply "S," I was astounded to see bureaucratic employees making human decisions. Hooray for the Wilmington DMV!
In addition to my fine DMV experiences, we got to see Chris Cubeta and the Liars Club this weekend, which was the awesomest ever. They just kicked so much ass.
SO MUCH!
They did an acoustic set early in the day at Folk's Cafe, and then an incredible, no-holes-barred set at Bella Festa. I even got a song sung just for me!
Then, because they are the best ever, they met us down at Lula's for drinks and a raucous time was had by all. Danny, their manager, crashed over our house and we all argued about the top 10 villians of all time until I became uncomfortable and had to play Journey on the jukebox to lighten the mood.
I was absolutely dead on Sunday. I appear to have given up the hangover in favor of the sleep of the dead. I no longer have nausea or headaches, I just can't wake up. Some have ventured to say that this means I'm getting old, but I won't hear of it.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Status: Ovary OK
So this week was mostly spent in contemplation of my left ovary, which did NOT feel good. Mostly, I feel you should not even notice that you have ovaries.
Of course, the ovary stopped hurting two days before my doctor's appointment, which made me feel like a car that obstinately refuses to start until it is towed to the mechanic's.
The doctor (and please, whoever is in charge of blessing, bless Planned Parenthood, for they are the harbingers of all that is good in the world) says I'm fine. The pain and weirdness exactly corresponded with my ovulation this month, so she says it's just some random weirdness.
And so now I'm free to think and blog about things besides my left ovary. I'm sure my male readers are pleased to hear that.
So, comparing myself to a car made me realize that I've never blogged about good old Christine, my car of yore, who is now driven by my fine friend, Katie.
Christine was a 95 Saturn SC2 and so named because she turned on by herself. No kidding. No one around her, no remote entry or ignition, nothing. Just sometimes you'd come out and the car would be locked and running.
The first time it happened, I was so baffled that I actually thought I might have somehow been so absent minded that I left the car running when I went into TJMaxx. Then I realized that if that were true, the keys wouldn't have been in my hand, they'd have been in the ignition.
The best, or at least most dramatic, of the times that Christine christined, was, in fact, the only time she did it in front of other people (pretty much all of whom thought I was crazy). It was late and Thomas, Mary and I were coming home from Lula's in a cab. We pulled up in front of the house, and my car was turning on and off, flashing her lights, locking and unlocking the doors, her windows were going up and down and the windshield wipers were going. "Look at that!" we were all screaming. Thomas went to touch the car and I was like, "NOOOOOOO!"
I think I seriously thought it would eat him.
I always wanted to call Click and Clack about it, but figured that either no one would believe me, or there would be a perfectly simple explanation and I would prefer to believe that my car was possessed by the devil.
The only other really bizarre thing that she did (and really, she was a wonderful, reliable, long suffering car) was that once, for a two week period of time, she would only turn on once a day. And once was a hard and fast rule. You could go as far as you wanted once the car was on, but once it was off it would not turn on again until tomorrow.
I drove it to the mechanic's and parked outside and went in to tell my tale of woe. The mechanics all laughed at me. This stupid girl, you could hear them thinking. "Fine," I said, "Laugh. And then go try to move my car into the bay."
They came back. One looked at me, almost angrily. "Your car won't start," he said.
"I know," I said. "Try again tomorrow."
To be fair, they could have totally hosed me. They could have said ANYTHING and I would have believed them, because their initial assessment was right, when it comes to the car, I AM a stupid girl. But it turned out that it was just the sensor that tells when the car is overheating. The sensor was broken and it wouldn't let the car turn on because every time the car was driven, it thought it was overheating. Hughs Brothers only charged me $75.
Sensor shmensor. That car was possessed by the devil.
Of course, the ovary stopped hurting two days before my doctor's appointment, which made me feel like a car that obstinately refuses to start until it is towed to the mechanic's.
The doctor (and please, whoever is in charge of blessing, bless Planned Parenthood, for they are the harbingers of all that is good in the world) says I'm fine. The pain and weirdness exactly corresponded with my ovulation this month, so she says it's just some random weirdness.
And so now I'm free to think and blog about things besides my left ovary. I'm sure my male readers are pleased to hear that.
So, comparing myself to a car made me realize that I've never blogged about good old Christine, my car of yore, who is now driven by my fine friend, Katie.
Christine was a 95 Saturn SC2 and so named because she turned on by herself. No kidding. No one around her, no remote entry or ignition, nothing. Just sometimes you'd come out and the car would be locked and running.
The first time it happened, I was so baffled that I actually thought I might have somehow been so absent minded that I left the car running when I went into TJMaxx. Then I realized that if that were true, the keys wouldn't have been in my hand, they'd have been in the ignition.
The best, or at least most dramatic, of the times that Christine christined, was, in fact, the only time she did it in front of other people (pretty much all of whom thought I was crazy). It was late and Thomas, Mary and I were coming home from Lula's in a cab. We pulled up in front of the house, and my car was turning on and off, flashing her lights, locking and unlocking the doors, her windows were going up and down and the windshield wipers were going. "Look at that!" we were all screaming. Thomas went to touch the car and I was like, "NOOOOOOO!"
I think I seriously thought it would eat him.
I always wanted to call Click and Clack about it, but figured that either no one would believe me, or there would be a perfectly simple explanation and I would prefer to believe that my car was possessed by the devil.
The only other really bizarre thing that she did (and really, she was a wonderful, reliable, long suffering car) was that once, for a two week period of time, she would only turn on once a day. And once was a hard and fast rule. You could go as far as you wanted once the car was on, but once it was off it would not turn on again until tomorrow.
I drove it to the mechanic's and parked outside and went in to tell my tale of woe. The mechanics all laughed at me. This stupid girl, you could hear them thinking. "Fine," I said, "Laugh. And then go try to move my car into the bay."
They came back. One looked at me, almost angrily. "Your car won't start," he said.
"I know," I said. "Try again tomorrow."
To be fair, they could have totally hosed me. They could have said ANYTHING and I would have believed them, because their initial assessment was right, when it comes to the car, I AM a stupid girl. But it turned out that it was just the sensor that tells when the car is overheating. The sensor was broken and it wouldn't let the car turn on because every time the car was driven, it thought it was overheating. Hughs Brothers only charged me $75.
Sensor shmensor. That car was possessed by the devil.
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