Trading carrots for chocolate pudding since 2012.
OK, I’m a little ashamed to admit this, but the automotive realm is a little outside my area of expertise.
Throughout high school and half of my college career, the majority of my friends were guys. And not just any guys, mind you, but motor heads.
They could spend countless hours discussing every single bolt, wire and upgraded shift light they spotted in Muscle Car Magazine — they were dedicated.
And I enjoyed it. I really did. Didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but we had some seriously fun times.
Conversations such as “What are you doing this weekend?” were typically answered with something along the lines of “Replacing my drive shaft.”
They would then launch into a Technicolor description of the process, which to my brain generally sounded like they were planning on unscrewing the ENTIRE CAR and then putting it back together.
Of course, me being me, I did the smile and nod thing and pretended to have the vaguest idea what they were talking about.
Honestly, the only thing I really cared about was that their cars were fast. Smokin’ fast. Because fast is fun.
Because of this, I spent countless weekends at the drag strip with my head under the hood of a ’79 Camaro or ’66 Chevelle.
Fast forward to today.
I’ve got a problem: The blue bucket of bolts I roll in is not shifting properly, and that annoying orange light next to the speedometer has been on for the last month or so. Maybe two.
However, when it comes to my car and, more specifically, getting it fixed, I can never tell when I’m being taken to the cleaners — which really sucks, because A. Not only do I like being able to fix things MYSELF, but B. It takes a toll on my barely-there bank account.
After getting cleaned out four times by the oh, so obliging and oh, so overpriced mechanic located a convenient three blocks from my house, I’m in the market for some competent reliability.
Thankfully, this time, someone with male macho is coming to my rescue.
He rode along, got first hand experience of the slippage, did some recon with a trusted mechanic and even got me an estimate … that was roughly half the price I paid for the same service I had done the week after I bought the freakin’ Focus.
Who has two thumbs and is wishing she paid better attention to all things sparkplug and lug nut related when she was 17?