Bits for Sunday, October 18 2009

Yesterday I went for an oil change. You might have heard of the place that takes care of that for me. It’s called Dad’s garage.

Dad prefers to change the oil himself because he believes the little jiffy-lube places change it too quickly. Or something like that. I only listen about 50% of the time.

My adventure began when I drove to the auto parts store to get the oil and filter. I walked inside, looking all forlorn and pathetic, only to be waited on by a young man slightly over the age of twelve, sporting a hoodie and ear buds. I can’t complain, though. When I pulled out the list and read him the Dad-ordered-ingredients, he was very quick to find them for me.

After that, I drove to Dad’s garage, where I found the ramp waiting for my car. I parked right outside and waved the keys at him (he was on the mower) as I scurried right past the ramp into the house.

He came inside and said, “Why didn’t you pull the car into the garage?”

I replied, “Well, with me behind the wheel, the car would have gone into the garage, up the ramp, through the wall, and out onto the front porch.”

I headed to the treadmill and Dad headed to the garage to change the oil. When he came in, he asked me when I’d last had the oil changed.

Uh oh.

I knew I was overdue. I’d even told him I was overdue. I’d even semi-begged him to not lecture me about it.

Dad continued, “You’re supposed to have an oil change every three thousand miles. Do you know how many it’s been?”

I cringed and tried to mentally calculate how many months it had been since my car found its way to his garage. I decided to go for the worst. “Five?”

“Eleven.”

WHAT!?!?!?

I don’t even know eleven thousand miles. I’m about the least well-traveled person I’ve ever met. And I knew for sure I’d had an oil change in May before I went to Hershey. Maybe one since then. But at least that one. And he says I’ve driven eleven thousand miles since then?
It’s obvious what happened.

Someone stole my car. Someone stole it and without my knowledge, drove to Honolulu and back. (I’ll keep the other couple thousand as my own responsibility.)

Three times Dad walked back out to the garage to check his little tally marks for my car. Three times he came in and nodded that his story stood. Three times I said, “It just can’t be! Where would I possibly have gone for eleven thousand miles?”

We did conclude that when baby James was born in July, I did drive to Anderson. And not only did I drive to Anderson, I drove around it while Trudy was in labor and I went shopping. And there were two trips to the lake. Two, I tell you!

We never did reach an agreement. I left Dad’s garage with a spare quart of oil and the mystery of who stole my car and drove it to Honolulu and back before I could notice it was missing.

If it was you, could you please fess up and end the Dad’s Garage confusion?