Cars No. 1

Being a trophy wife is not all fun and games. (Although, I won’t lie. It comes pretty darn close. Mama V. ain’t no fool.) The very fact that I don’t have to report to anyone for a good majority of the day makes me a prime candidate for what I like to call “9-5 Tasks.” This includes anything to do with the post office, bank, and my personal least favorite, taking care of the car.

Let me be frank. The sum of my personal knowledge concerning automobiles amounts primarily to the list of things I’ve learned over the years not to hit: rocks, road signs, deer, 18 wheelers, garage doors, etc., etc., et. al.(I’ve also learned that by the time your oil light comes on, you’re already dead in the water, which I think is a very mean-spirited design flaw on the part of all automakers. Come on! I don’t even get a warning?!) I know nothing about cars, they know nothing about me, and we’ve maintained this frienemy state of affairs quite happily for some time now.

Until now. Until AAMCO Dan.

Pennsylvania does not believe in paving roads, so – as you can imagine – the Mazda took quite a few pot(hole)shots this winter. This alone would probably call for some sort of appointment I don’t understand, but the Mazda’s issues are also exacerbated by its special “I’m from Georgia and can only drive in sunshine and sprinkles” suspension. (Bert’s words, my translation.) I’m not sure what makes it different, but let me tell you: every time I hit a hole in that thing I feel like I’m about to loose a molar. Oy vey.

Last week, the Mazda and I were zipping around on one of our daily Fun Runs when the front, passenger tire started making this terrible grinding noise. Like metal teeth crunching metals rocks. Ugh. Nails on a chalkboard. It makes me shiver just thinking about it. I called Bert in a wifely panic and asked him if I was about to loose a wheel and die, because everyone knows that this is something that you can immediately diagnose over the phone when speaking to a frantic woman. (Just ask Click and Clack.) He told me to calm down and drive it home. “You can take it to AAMCO tomorrow.”

Ah, AAMCO. When Bert said those words, it WAS like sunshine and sprinkles. (I can assure you. I’ve been to every Saturn dealership on the East Coast and there were NEVER any sprinkles at Saturn. And look where it got them.) Why? Because when I go to AAMCO, I get to hang out with AAMCO Dan.

AAMCO Dan has changed my entire perception of automobile maintenance and local Pennsyltucky culture. How could I not love a man who calls my husband “Hercules” (because, yes, Bert CAN crack an oil cap with his bare hands) and is not ashamed to steal my purple cell phone and run around the entire premises with it? (Sometimes, Bert would just rather talk to Dan. Apparently, my descriptions of car problems are not always helpful.) He is that rare (to me) combination of local and normal (which gives me hope for the rest of NEPA) and has a much-appreciated knack for diagnosing the Mazda without spending gazillion dollars.

In this case? That terrible crunching sound I heard was just a rock caught in the rotor. Oh. My bad. But we did end up needing a new something, so our hang out time was justified. Next time it will be the front struts. Or maybe we’ll bring Jeepers in for some TLC. Either way, I’m not dreading it quite so much anymore. Thanks, AAMCO Dan!