I know how to fill up my car. I can add windshield washer fluid, and if you put a gun to my head, I suppose I could check the air pressure in the tires, though I’d rather not.
That’s why I’m so damned pleased with myself after an encounter with the guys at my auto body shop Monday.
I picked up my car Friday after having some minor work done. (The rental company gave me a Chevy Suburban, which means I now can drive an RV or small school bus.) It looked good as new, and I happily drove away.
But on the first turn, I heard something slide and a “clanking” noise coming from the back. I returned to the shop, and asked if, perhaps, a tool was left where they’d worked. (Hey, surgeons make the same mistake.) I was told that couldn’t be it, it had to be a slightly loose muffler. Muffler tightened, I hit the road again.
I returned Monday morning.
“Humor me. Just check to see if there’s something you left in there.”
The discovery of one rather large screwdriver later, they were apologizing, which was beyond unnecessary.
The sheer thrill of the diagnosis made me feel manly enough to change the oil.
Fortunately, it passed before I tried to do something I’m completely incapable of.