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  • Writer's picturemaggiehsmith07

So. How was your Sunday?

Over this three-day weekend, I'd realized the oil in my car was due for a change and had a coupon burning a hole in my inbox. A non-expired coupon and a week of lots of driving. Easy peasy. I mean - that's what I expected from a place that SPECIALIZES in "INSTANT" oil changes. Only when we went to pull back out onto the busy roadway, my car lurched, shuddered and almost stalled. We pulled back in and waited our turn. Again. Which came 15-minutes later.

"I figured out what happened!" a different service tech announces.

"Oh yeah?" We expectantly reply.

"Yeah... they pulled the plug for the TRANSMISSION FLUID! Only a little came out..."

Look. I am not a oil change technician but suppose you are. You change oil all day long. Wouldn't you think that step one would be knowing which plug to remove? This is not the time to argue because I'm not really in a happy mood so go with this. Even so. Mistakes happen, right? So say you pull the wrong damn plug, perhaps you say, “Oops.” To someone with a clue. But I think that anyone with a clue that may work at this establishment had the day off. So boy wonder announces that he will perform a full, transmission fluid change. No charge. No shit.

This takes much longer than their snappy, 15-minute oil change. He declares it fixed and hands me paperwork with NO CHARGE on it. We pull out and lurch around the block back into, let’s call it WEDONOTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKWEAREDOING-oline for the sake of this exercise. I demand to see boy wonder and someone under a car is like, “Who?”

At this point, my cold has left my voice sounding as if I’ve chain smoked for years and I can barely speak but when my eyes lock on boy wonder and he ambles over to me, I essentially yell at him and lob F bombs at him and rage about incompetence. He says he’s sorry. He’s sorry? I am sorry I tried to have a responsible, productive morning. I inform him in the manner of an incoherent crazy person that I am taking the car to the mechanic and they are paying the bill. He agrees, likely in an effort to get rid of me who is making a scene in front of the other customers who hearing me say that my car won't work after having the oil changed there. Andrea sits in the car as I rage. I catch sight of her face at one point and cannot read her expression - amusement? Fright? I stomp back to her.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“He’s sorry. He’s sorry! HE’S SORRY! Is he fucking serious? What does that get me?” I angrily tap at my phone to message my neighbor, who owns an auto repair shop, to find out if they're open tomorrow and then I call the corporate phone number of WEDONOTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKWEAREDOING-oline and get another number of where I can file a claim.

My neighbor comes over and although things sound bad about my car, I feel slightly less like burning down WEDONOTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKWEAREDOING-oline. Until my neighbor suggests that I talk to my friend Sue who had to get a WHOLE NEW TRANSMISSION after those buffoons changed her oil. We drive my car to my neighbor’s shop and leave it there. Andrea drives us home and I google how to file a complaint with the MA attorney general and how to file a small claims court because after hearing about Sue’s experience, I’m even less confident in these fools.

Even though Christopher Columbus was a prick, I’m grateful I have the day off tomorrow so I can have my car looked at and maybe book a rental car (which WEDONOTKNOWWHATTHEFUCKWEAREDOING-oline will reimburse my ass for) for the week ahead.

So. How was your Sunday?

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