Who wants to start a company with me??
Here’s the deal. I got my air con fixed last year (needed to be recharged) but then it crapped out about two weeks ago. So I called the place I had it done and they said to bring it in.
When I dropped the car off that morning, I told the punk I wanted the air con fixed. Said punk said it was no problemo. Then I said, since I’m here, can you change the oil? I’m overdue. And by the way, the ‘Check Engine’ light on my dash is on, but don’t worry about it. My dad had someone look at it and the technical explanation was ‘Something between here (the dash) and here (the engine) is no connect.” (My dad has a greek accent). I explained to the punk that my understanding was the light can’t be cleared out until my car talks to a computer and gets the ‘code’ cleared. He said, “Oh, we have a computer. We can do that for you.”
Things the punk left out #1 – Their establishment doesn’t do air con anymore. So when they called me at 10.30am I was quite surprised to find out that not only can they not fix it, they can’t even look for a leak to see if that’s why it failed. A further conversation ruled out them taking any blame for it failing. Another conversation about why I wasn’t informed of their no air con service ended with another young punk (a girl this time) telling me that not everyone who works there knows what services they offer.
You know, when I worked at Starbucks, everyone knew how to make coffee.
Things the punk left out #2 – Hooking the computer up to my car is an automatic 90.00 diagnostic fee. FASCISTS!!
So, at the end of the day, I’m left with only an oil change and a tire rotate and I’m out 200 bucks. BARK!!
But I consoled myself that at least the ‘Check Engine’ light was finally turned off and people would stop asking me about it.
Guess what turned on again this afternoon . . .
What say a bunch of us girls get together, take some automotives class and open up a mechanic shop? Think of how great it would be for women to talk to other women about their cars? No one makes fun of you when you imitate the sound your car is making. No one looks at you weird when you explain that you brought it in because it just ‘isn’t driving right.’ No one jeers at you when they open up your glove compartment and six candy bar wrappers and a tampon fall out. We could hold classes: How to change your break light. How to change your wiperblades. Why what your boyfriend is saying is BS because he doesn’t know jack about cars.