Reading these posts without pictures is really hard

Some people take their cars to the dealer for everything. Oil change? Dealer. Tire rotation? Dealer. Hear a weird knocking noise? Dealer. Niece spilled a milkshake in the back? Dealer.

After the purchase of our first new car, I became one of those people. Except for the detailing. Not that I wouldn't get my car detailed, I just haven't. Yet. I've also never had someone spill a milkshake in the car. (Unless you count the time Mike was driving and a bottled Frappuccino exploded when he opened it. He's still a bit fuzzy on the details, but it sounded very traumatic. Especially the part when he realized he'd have to explain the rancid Dark Chocolate Raspberry aroma to me.)

And while no one enjoys going to any repair shop for maintenance, it's really not so bad. You pull up, someone comes over and asks a few questions. You get out of the car, hang out in the air-conditioned waiting room for a while, then the same customer service rep brings you your keys and directs you where to pay. Easy-peasy.

Until it isn't.

Take for instance... yesterday.
Yesterday was not easy-peasy.
Yesterday was "Thanks for reducing me to tears in a crowded waiting room. Sorry about the puddle; my checking account is hemorrhaging."

It was time for an oil change on Mike's car. Now, he will alternate between the dealer and the local lube shop for oil changes. But he drives 70+ miles a day, so the car sees a lot of service action. We'd done the big 60,000 mile service 6 months ago and were still paying the interest on it. An oil change, inspection and tire rotation and I should have been out of there in an hour.

First, there was the copying of the VIN, the jotting down of the mileage and the kicking of the tires.

"Well, those are looking a bit worn."
"Yeah, we're planning on replacing them next month."
"Mm-hmm."

The dude (we'll call him Danny-boy, freckled as he is) nods his head and makes some notes on his clipboard. He leads me over to the service cubicle and types some info into his computer. He scratches his head with his pen, the blue ballpoint undoubtedly leaving an inky trail under his ginger locks.

Danny-boy frowns and says, "You've put 14,500 miles on that car in 6 months."
"I know, it's the commute. Adds up fast."
"That's... that's a lot of miles."
"We're hoping to move soon."
He blinks at me.
"To cut down on the wear and tear on the car. And my husband. Ha-ha!"

And I'm justifying myself to this guy, why, exactly? It's not like we're taking joy rides; Mike has to drive to work! He can't fly there! We want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Damn you, chlorofluorocarbons!

"Well, you're up-to-date on your service. Just initial here, and we'll start the oil change."

I initial, then take my book into the waiting room. I settle in and divide my time between reading and watching the movie about the football player who finds out he has a daughter. It's got The Rock in it. Oops, I mean, Dwayne Johnson.

About 45 minutes later, Danny-boy comes into the waiting room.

"We're all done with the oil change, but I wanted to show you something."

Great, here we go. I may be an easy mark, but I'm also broke. You can show me whatever you'd like, but I'm not paying for any sort of super-snazzy-glossy-coating-just-$49.95-today-only crap.

"We got the tires off, you know, to rotate, and first, we found this." And he points to a huge nail stuck in a tire. Of course, it's not in a normal spot. No, somehow this nail was trapped not in the tread, but the "edge, below the crown."

"And you can see on this tire, and on all of them, where you've hit the wear bar. There is no life left in these tires."
Duh. They're the original tires and it's been nearly 75,000 miles.

"But the worst one is this tire here. Not sure what's going on, yet. But you can see where the inside of the tire is starting to wear funny. And then, there's this crack, almost a hole, that's starting."

Indeed. It looks like someone stabbed my tire and then tried to skin it. The odd wear pattern gives the impression of someone whittling away at the rubber. I wonder if this was before or after they hammered that nail in the first tire?

Now, I'm assuming these are my tires, and not some damaged props they use to freak you out and get you to help them meet their tire-sales quota. And if they are my tires, then there is no way in hell I'm letting Mike drive another mile on them.

"How much?"

He flips a page and starts talking about lifetime free rotation and recall notification service and...

"Dude. I can't even afford the oil change."
"Well, we only charge 10% over cost, and..."

And, I don't care. I can't afford this. But how can I not? Obviously, we need tires. The price he's quoting is not unreasonable. However, I am broke and finding pride to be a little expensive these days.

"I got a coupon in the mail last week, for 15% off. I left it at home. Any chance you could still honor that for me?"

Poor guy; we both know that coupon has nothing to do with tires. Three more minutes of hand-wringing and gee-golly later, he says he'll figure something out and I say go ahead.

Back in the waiting room, I text Mike to tell him I'll be turning tricks on the corner and to wave as he drives by tonight. The football-daughter movie is still on. 'The Game Plan.' (Thanks, imdb!)

Another hour passes, and I realize two things. #1 - the movie ended, but we've been watching the bonus features and apparently The Rock in tights is what audiences want more of, and #2 - if the tires were already off the car, should it take this long to put on new ones?

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in, and sits down in the chair across from me.

"We've got everything done; the oil changed, fluids checked, tires on. Now, we think we've realized what happened to that one tire to make it fail. The other ones were simply worn, except for that nail of course, but the right front tire was definitely an issue. It seems it was at an angle, tilting in. Did you hit a pothole, really hard? Or run over something, really hard? It would take a lot of force to do that kind of damage, where the wheel turns in like that. You'd have to hit something really hard."

"I don't know. It's my husband's car." What else can I say? Mike would tell me if he hit, like, a body, really hard, but a pothole? No.

"Well, I suggest a wheel alignment. I know, it's more money, and you might not be able to do it, but you just put four brand new tires on the car, and if the alignment is that bad, you could be replacing the front tire way sooner than you should. It's an investment. Honest. But you have to decide. I understand if you can't, but if you can, you really should. It's $60 now, but it could hit your wallet really hard later."

(Ok, he didn't say that last part, but I was waiting for it.)

I don't even try to gee-golly. I just rub my forehead and listen to The Rock complain about ballet. Shit. I was about to put hundreds of dollars on the credit card that I could barely pay the minimum on as it was. This was ridiculous.

"Ok. How long?"

Danny-boy is sympathetic. I expect him to pat my leg and offer me some coffee, but all he says is, "About another hour. I'll be back."

The receptionist walks over to the tv and ejects The Game Plan. There are two little boys in the waiting room now, and I suspect they are tired of all the dancing outtakes. The Disney logo comes up on the screen and I go back to my book.

A few minutes later I look up, and actually whimper. They're showing 'Up'. What, are they trying to make me suicidal? I can't take this movie. The first 15 minutes are so fucking sad it makes me want to throw-up at all the love. They were so happy, and they got married, but then they couldn't have kids, but that was ok! They had each other! And there was sunshine and happiness and the years go by and then she gets sick and dies. Dies!

I sniffle and clear my throat, avoiding eye contact with the other customers. And Mike picks that moment to call and check in, and I'm like, "Baby, there is no way in hell I can hold a conversation at this moment. I'm hungry and tired. I'm about to spend $500 on car repairs and she. just. died! I'm hanging up now."

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in and motions for me to join him at the register. He points out the different things they did, and what everything cost.

"I got them to take 10% off the tires and $10 off the alignment."
Wow, I may have just haggled for the first time today. And it worked, a little. Cool.
"And there was no charge for the tire rotation."

Dude, there was nothing to rotate, you took them off. Don't act like you've cut me a huge deal on that. No charge for tire rotation... Give me a break.

I hand him my credit card, sign the bill and head for the lot. I get in the car and put my purse on the passenger seat. There's a big, dirty handprint right in the middle. I'd like to hit something really hard. But I don't have another $60.