My car has seen fit to completely freak out on me over the last month. Because I've not had enough going on.
Before I start my sob story, let me say I love my car. Ever since I was tiny (like five), I told my family I was going to have a red convertible. Fast forward twenty years later, and guess what I bought? Yep, and her name is Sally. 'Cause she's a Mustang. And over the last four years she's been exceedingly kind to me. She never acted up, was always ready to go, and I was faithful about maintenance. I'm assuming those were her child years.
Now, she's acting like a rebellious teenager.
So right after Daddy had his stroke, I could hear something sound like it was dragging. And because I am a southern girl, I asked Daddy what I needed to do. (To quote Fred Jones, "value comes from being needed" and Daddy needed to know I needed guidance about my car. Still.) Dad thought it was the disc pads. (Still don't know what those are.) So in the month of June I truck on out to Automate and find out I need new brakes. I pull out my debit card.
A week later I found out if you use too much force on the handle that raises and lowers the passenger seat, it will break off in your hand. I got a new handle. And pulled out my debit card.
Sally then lulled me into a false sense of security and then pulled the equivalent of a 1-2 punch this week. There will be a separate post about Sunday, because Sunday was the day of six different catastrophes, all of varying sizes. But Sally saved her big tantrums for this week.
So I go to the mall Sunday to get a new top for my group presentation. It was such a gorgeous day so the top was down, the radio was up, and life good. I go into the mall, find some things, and mosey back to the car. Put my stuff in the trunk, slide behind the wheel, put the keys in the ignition, and n-o-t-h-i-n-g. My car wouldn't start. So what do you do?
Call Daddy. Even though he's 40 miles away. And you're looking right at the Sears automotive store. Then you call your awesome best friend and she and her dad come and give your battery a jump. And you go to Sears and get them to come and test your battery. Guess what? I need a new battery. I pulled out my debit card.
Tuesday, I get new tires. Four of 'em. I pulled out my debit card.
Wednesday, the plastic box in my trunk that holds my trunk started dangling. I couldn't close my trunk for it. Which is why it's Thursday. The nice fella behind the counter popped the box back in place, but I asked him if there was a way to secure it so that it wouldn't pop out again. Which is why I am in the waiting room at Automate. Writing a blog post. Hoping the teen years will soon pass.
Sally and myself when she wasn't so sassy.