Tuesday, January 29, 2013

My Car Thinks He's Funny

Update: At least I'm not this chick.

The car I'm driving, Phil The Cranberry Comet (I'll explain later), has decided he's funny.  Not only does he think he's funny, he thinks he's HILARIOUS.  Let me fill you in on the adventures of the last 48 hours.

Sunday afternoon: Come home, park on the road so I can shovel off the driveway.  Go to start the car to pull in the driveway and the key goes into the ignition just fine but the ignition would budge when I try to turn the key.  Play with key and steering wheel for 5 or 10 minutes, get to the point where I'm going to call someone to come look at it then it magically unfreezes and the key turns.  Thank the car for being a good boy. 

Late Sunday night:  Go into the family office to shovel and sand a path for the employees to get into the back door the next day.  Car is turned off for about half an hour.  Get in car and ignition won't turn.  Wiggle the steering wheel.  Wiggle the key.  Tap "gently" on the key. Turn the steering wheel hard until it locks up.  Repeat for 15 minutes.  Bang head on steering wheel in desperation.  Text brother who previously drove the car to find out what is wrong with psycho car, he texts back some suggestions.  Nothing works.  Check fuses, everything looks fine.  Get back in and try it one last time.  Car magically starts working.

Monday Morning:  Try to start car.  Repeat all things tried the day before, nothing happens.  Spray key with WD-40, try again with no luck.  Cuss out the car.  Run out of cuss words and start inventing new ones (Flubnut is my favorite, I'm thinking of trademarking it).  Cajole car.  Offer car bribes of high test gas and a nice hot car wash.  Call everyone in my family who lives within driving distance, no one picks up.  Call work and tell them my car hates me and I'm going to be late.  Finally get a hold of Deathy McDaredevil and beg her to come get me.  Deathy McDaredevil rides to the rescue.  Car decides to work just as sister shows up, after almost half an hour of jiggling various automotive parts.  Go to pull out of the subdivision and get high centered on pile of ice and slush left by snowplow.  Get pushed out onto road by friendly Samoan neighbor guys.  Go to work and along the way have stern conversation with car about appropriate behavior and how this sullen teenager bull crap doesn't fly "under my roof" or as I had to rephrase it "On my driveway".  Park in the far parking lot and point at car while saying in my command voice "Sit, stay, good boy."  Realize college student wearing shortshorts, uggs, a poncho, and an animal hat with mittens attached to it is looking at me like I'm the crazy one.  Stop talking to the car.

Monday at noon:  Check out on lunch break and tell co-workers I may be back if it doesn't work.  Walk to car park and give the car A LOOK.  Car glares back.  Get in, give car words of encouragement, but pretend to be talking on the phone...just in case crazy college girl is back and watching me.  Try key in ignition.  Ignition basically says "SCREW YOU!  You're not my real mom." and does nothing I ask it to.  Try all previous tricks for 10 minutes before giving up and head back to call my mom for a ride.  Hang head in shame and relive embarrassment of 13 year old self being driven around by my mommy.  Admit to co-workers that me and my car are having a disagreement, but it's only temporary and we both still love them very much.  Have mother drive me home to let MWD out to write her name in the snow and then take me back to work.  Mother consoles me by giving me a box of Special K cracker chips and saying "Here, eat these.", in her language it means "I'm so sorry my darling, but I love you and am here for you".  Eat half the box, resolve to stop eating crackers to fill the emotional void in my soul.

Monday after work:  Tell coworkers that if they see a blue cloud rising from the parking lot that it is just me yelling obscenities at the car, not to worry.  Stop to take photos of shoes hanging from a phone wire, you're welcome.  Get in car.  Try ignition, ignition is still pouting.  Wiggle key in all directions.  Compliment car on it's sense of humor.  Wiggle steering wheel.  Try WD-40 again.  Sing to car.  Try random keys from my keyring in igniton.  Wiggle the transmission shifter.  Tell car it better behave or it's grounded.  Crank steering wheel so hard it locks up.  Cuss out car.  Bang on steering column.  Push all the buttons in the car in desperation.  Repeat all actions for 30 minutes, occasionally asking other people to try it so I know I'm not crazy, none of them can move it either.  Give up and go back to work because I have to pee.  Ask co-worker A. to give me a ride home.  A. looks up solutions to my car problem on interwebs and gives suggestions.  Try suggestions, they don't work.  A. comes out to car and tries it.  Car likes A. and allows ignition to turn, car gives me a smug look.  Drive vehicle immediately to Saint R.'s house (my long suffering mechanic).  Leave car running for fear of turning it off and it not starting again.  Saint R. pulls car into his workshop and I walk to Deathy McDaredevil's house and get fed delicious pity dinner and given a pity ride home by Deathy.

Monday night:  Take a bath, wear frump clothes and slippers, eat chocolate cake, go to bed at 9:30pm.

Tuesday: Bum rides from mom all day, feel like little kid again, but not in a good way.  Borrow mom's car.  Get phone call that tells me Saint R. can't find anything wrong with car.  Ignition worked fine for Saint R.'s, Saint R.'s wife (the queen of the samoyeds, or QOTS for short), and Deathy McDaredevil who was called over to try it.  Ask mom to take me on the drive of shame to pick up jerk car.  Car starts the first time for me in Saint R.'s shop with him watching.  Back jerk car up to the gate and turn it off while waiting for Saint R.'s to get everything out of the way so I can leave.  Go to start car again and the key turns but car won't start, in car language this means "SCREW YOU, you're not my real mom, and I'm going to live at Saint R.'s house, he understands me more than you do.".  Bang head on steering wheel.  Laugh because it is less messy than throwing a tantrum.  Admit new and different problem to long suffering mechanic, mom, and various family members who were watching.  Watch them laugh.  Beg yet another ride from mom.

Now: Consider calling in sick, or dead, to work tomorrow so I can stay home and wallow properly. 

Cars hate me...cars hate me more than I hate the following things put together: spiders, clowns, exercise, non-history shows on the history channel, and chihuahuas wearing clothes.  It is now time for more cake...and chips.  I may run out of cake and chips before this situation gets resolved.

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