. . . w i t h | a r m s | s w i n g i n g . . .

Monday, September 27, 2004 · posted at 2:19 PM

Mechanical failure.

I don't know anything about the inner workings of a car. I also live happily in the state of denial. So when my car starting making fingers-on-chalkboard screeching noises every time I turned the wheel, I just ignored it and bumped up Shippotamus a little bit louder.

Many passenger complaints later and the realization that "damnit it won't go away even if I just pretend it's not there" (very much like annoying neighbors or coworkers), I decided that something needed to be done and it probably needed to be taken into the shop... So I told my dad.

Unfortunately, this didn't result in the action I was hoping for. I thought I could just tell me dad, he'd take it to the shop, and I could sleep in until noon. My dad on the other hand, very much believed in the "it takes a village to fix a car." approach.

So 8 o'clock in the morning and my dad's peremptory command to go with him has me brushing my teeth with half-open eyes. This task is not hastened by my dad popping his head in every four seconds to check up on me. I know I am a huge fan of the hyperbole, but when I say four seconds, I really mean four seconds. I have time to get the brush from the top of the tooth to the bottom of the tooth before he sticks his head back in.

Our first stop is… not the dealer. It's the Chinese mechanic down the road (sidebar> I love driving with my dad. He likes to tell me what direction to go and what street to take even though I lived in this city for 20+ years). Of course we go to the Chinese mechanic because Chinese people are trustworthy but beegok lang are not. I swear… Chinese professionals have such a monopoly in this town. Every Chinese person has the same orthodontist, goes to the same optometrist, gets their oil changed at the same place (or across the street)…

Anyway so we go to Jiu-he so the mechanic could take a look.

I tell the mechanic that the car makes a creaking when I turn and when I break. Then we all get in the car and go for a test ride. Crickets. The whole time. Not crickets from the car itself - that was reliably noisy. Crickets from inside the car. My dad is hard of hearing so I know that he wouldn't hear anything, but I wasn't sure if the mechanic was hearing anything because he was so quiet! With each squeak, I wanted to ask "Did you hear that?" Stoneface I swear.

We get back to the shop and he says, "Oh yeah that's pretty bad."

We go to the dealer to get rid of the creaking. Apparently Camrys get really dry in the steering wheel and need to be lubricated every so often. Hooray. Creaking noise gone... but squeaking noise is still there. Also my dad relayed to me that there were some nuts/bolts/plugs? missing from the underside of the car.

Back to the dealership, this time as the designated translator. My dad wants me, since I speak better English, to explain to the dealer that there were nuts/bolts/plugs? missing that we needed replaced. What? I don't even know what's he's saying! I can't translate my confusion into the dealer's understanding no matter what language I speak.

In actuality, my "translation" services weren't needed because once we got to the parts shop, my dad accosted a clerk and started inquiring about nuts/bolts/plugs? (in a semi-accusatory tone, no less. I'm just glad he didn't call the guy amigo.

The man looked at the computer and said, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. There's nothing in the computer that matches that part" which my dad took as an invitation to go behind the counter, whip out his glasses and look at the computer.

How did I get to be such a bubble worshipper when my genes are telling me to be a space invader?

To my dad, the counter is just something you sign your receipts on - not a sacred barrier between customer and people who know what they are doing. I can't tell you how many times I heard "Wait sir," "You can't go back there, sir," "Sir please wait here," because my dad kept walking into the parts warehouse, which was guarded by an "Authorized employees only" sign.

Again at Jiu-he, he just charges into the employee entrance to the main office to talk to the owner. Then he wanders into the garage where there are "RESTRICTED AREA" signs everywhere so that he can talk to one of the mechanics. As a general rule, I try not to disturb the nice men working underneath 3000 pound cars suspended in the air...

And the squeaking noise? Still there. At the dealer the mechanic told us that there's something twisting behind the dashboard, but they have to remove part of the dash so I need to bring it back when the shop opens in the morning. My dad heard this and spent the remainder of the day opening the glove compartment and taking things out and testing to see if the noise was still there.

But after this whole experience, it might be a while before I can muster up the strength to go through it again. Squeak on.



	Monday, September 27, 2004 · posted at 2:19 PM Mechanical failure. I don't know anything about the inner workings of a car. I also live happily in the state of denial. So when my car starting making fingers-on-chalkboard screeching noises every time I turned the wheel, I just ignored it and bumped up Shippotamus a little bit louder. Many passenger complaints later and the realization that "damnit it won't go away even if I just pretend it's not there" (very much like annoying neighbors or coworkers), I decided that something needed to be done and it probably needed to be taken into the shop... So I told my dad. Unfortunately, this didn't result in the action I was hoping for. I thought I could just tell me dad, he'd take it to the shop, and I could sleep in until noon. My dad on the other hand, very much believed in the "it takes a village to fix a car." approach. So 8 o'clock in the morning and my dad's peremptory command to go with him has me brushing my teeth with half-open eyes. This task is not hastened by my dad popping his head in every four seconds to check up on me. I know I am a huge fan of the hyperbole, but when I say four seconds, I really mean four seconds. I have time to get the brush from the top of the tooth to the bottom of the tooth before he sticks his head back in. Our first stop is… not the dealer. It's the Chinese mechanic down the road (sidebar> I love driving with my dad. He likes to tell me what direction to go and what street to take even though I lived in this city for 20+ years). Of course we go to the Chinese mechanic because Chinese people are trustworthy but beegok lang are not. I swear… Chinese professionals have such a monopoly in this town. Every Chinese person has the same orthodontist, goes to the same optometrist, gets their oil changed at the same place (or across the street)… Anyway so we go to Jiu-he so the mechanic could take a look. I tell the mechanic that the car makes a creaking when I turn and when I break. Then we all get in the car and go for a test ride. Crickets. The whole time. Not crickets from the car itself - that was reliably noisy. Crickets from inside the car. My dad is hard of hearing so I know that he wouldn't hear anything, but I wasn't sure if the mechanic was hearing anything because he was so quiet! With each squeak, I wanted to ask "Did you hear that?" Stoneface I swear. We get back to the shop and he says, "Oh yeah that's pretty bad." We go to the dealer to get rid of the creaking. Apparently Camrys get really dry in the steering wheel and need to be lubricated every so often. Hooray. Creaking noise gone... but squeaking noise is still there. Also my dad relayed to me that there were some nuts/bolts/plugs? missing from the underside of the car. Back to the dealership, this time as the designated translator. My dad wants me, since I speak better English, to explain to the dealer that there were nuts/bolts/plugs? missing that we needed replaced. What? I don't even know what's he's saying! I can't translate my confusion into the dealer's understanding no matter what language I speak. In actuality, my "translation" services weren't needed because once we got to the parts shop, my dad accosted a clerk and started inquiring about nuts/bolts/plugs? (in a semi-accusatory tone, no less. I'm just glad he didn't call the guy amigo. The man looked at the computer and said, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. There's nothing in the computer that matches that part" which my dad took as an invitation to go behind the counter, whip out his glasses and look at the computer. How did I get to be such a bubble worshipper when my genes are telling me to be a space invader? To my dad, the counter is just something you sign your receipts on - not a sacred barrier between customer and people who know what they are doing. I can't tell you how many times I heard "Wait sir," "You can't go back there, sir," "Sir please wait here," because my dad kept walking into the parts warehouse, which was guarded by an "Authorized employees only" sign. Again at Jiu-he, he just charges into the employee entrance to the main office to talk to the owner. Then he wanders into the garage where there are "RESTRICTED AREA" signs everywhere so that he can talk to one of the mechanics. As a general rule, I try not to disturb the nice men working underneath 3000 pound cars suspended in the air... And the squeaking noise? Still there. At the dealer the mechanic told us that there's something twisting behind the dashboard, but they have to remove part of the dash so I need to bring it back when the shop opens in the morning. My dad heard this and spent the remainder of the day opening the glove compartment and taking things out and testing to see if the noise was still there. But after this whole experience, it might be a while before I can muster up the strength to go through it again. Squeak on.	Recent Posts I never really accomplished anything - not countin... Your sympathy will get you left behind. Two sum... Twelve Step It Obsessions are as defined by (1), ... I just registered for the GRE. Nerd as I am, I li... Psychoanalyze this. While I'm no fan of the icebr... In our world, where there are more and more faces,... Imitate not innovate. At what point do you resign... Trust fall? Trust fails. There are many differen... The Four-Star Follies Still, there's been a stead... The new Jason Mraz DVD is porn - without the neces... Morning news babie goose ryan bluemouse daves son dawntaught desiree diorama emily escadawg galveric high entropy invisible cube jepgato kyellow lilly mhuang mogbert nudream starfish + coffee verbivore Archives March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 January 2007 March 2007 April 2007 November 2008

	all humiliation © by author