Car Care

I'm terrible at it.  I've had the oil changed  twice in the last 5,000 miles (I know,  I know).

I blame this partly on my car's primary care provider,  a garage that specializes in keeping Toyotas and Volvos running as long as possible   All the time they want me to bring it in, every few thousand miles.  I hate driving across town early in the morning to drop it off.  I hate being without a car all day.  And it's expensive.

I've been getting around this by going behind their backs and taking it to Midas occasionally for an  oil change. Heh, heh.

Unfortunately, Jerry got wind of this the other night after I'd had a couple of glasses of wine.  No garage check for 5,000 miles!  He was appalled.  His own car may be a mess, full of bug gear and golf shoes and hats for every occasion, not to mention apples rotting under the seat, but, by God, he meticulously keeps track of mileage and servicing in a little book.  Which he's done since he bought his first car, a 1938 Pontiac jalopy.  It's actually kind of tedious hearing about all his cars.

Due to the dinnertime revelation,  I had to get up early this morning and drive across Berkeley, which is wretched during the rush hour. As I pulled out of my driveway, the woman next door pulled out in her brand new Porsche Panamera, which my sister tells me costs around $100,000.   I followed her car as it made its way sleekly across town so she could drop off her son at the high school.  I managed to escape that mayhem and continued on to the garage.

Gleaming and awaiting inspection

Where they were very nice, to my relief.  They didn't chastise me.  I was so freaked out yesterday about being delinquent that I had the car washed, so at least it would look good on the outside. 


Then Jerry picked me up in his car, which smelled like pizza.  He said he knew nothing about it.  But when we got home, he discovered there was half a pizza back where he keeps his collecting gear.  "Huh," he said.  Didn't faze him for an instant.