I made it through the weekend without my car. Well, ok, the car was in the driveway, right next to the house. But all it was doing was holding the driveway down. I called good ol’ Triple-A again today and they hauled it to the dealer. Since they already have to diagnose and correct whatever electrical problems are there, they also get to do the 3,000 mile oil change. How convenient.
And they get to replace a headlamp. Now, I’ve replaced headlamps before on my other cars. It’s not rocket surgery. In fact, the owner’s manual for this car says how to do it. But… well, it just didn’t work out. I admit that I’m not terribly handy when it comes to car repair, but the construction of the headlamp assembly and surrounding areas of this particular automobile borders on the Brobdingnagian. So after I’d spent a half-hour prying, pounding, sweet-talking, and cussing, and making almost no progress whatever except in marring the finish of the car, I realized one thing: I work for a living, typesetting books and “running around a cubicle maze,” specifically so that I don’t have to fix cars. It would be nice if I could fix cars. It would also be nice if I could, say, fix broken hearts (either literally or metaphorically).
But I can’t fix cars, at least not without a whole lot of additional training. So, the dealer has my car, and will make it, if not shiny and new, then at least operational. And I’ll give them money. Yay for division of labor.
And I’m working at home today, which is one of the best perks of my job. As long as I bring my work-issued super-duper MacBook Pro home, I can do everything here that I do at work except drink someone else’s coffee. I’m listening to Mendelssohn and watching birds bounce around the backyard while I do it, too—yes, I actually have a window seat, something else I don’t have in the office. Ahhhh.