Operation Oil Change

Today’s mission was to get an oil change. Brantley (current husband) usually does it himself, but over the last few days he noticed my car was leaking oil. Instead of investigating the leak himself he told me to take it somewhere and have the oil changed.

I pulled into the Valvoline express and went through the vaguely familiar process of Back up. No. Pull forward, again. Stop. Cut your wheels slightly to the right. Too far! Reverse. Ok, stop. I said stop!

An employee named Michael approaches my car and the following ensued.

“Pop your hood, please.”

“I did. It’s popped.”

“No, Ma’am. It isn’t. There should be a lever below the steering column somewhere.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with levers. In fact, if you’ll lift up on the hood a bit you’ll find that there’s one under there. It can be hard to find, but sometimes you gotta just give it hell and…”

“Yes Ma’am, I too am familiar with levers, but I believe you popped your trunk by mistake because it’s now open.”

“Oh! So it is. Alright. Give me one second. Aaand got it.”

“That was your fuel door.”

“You know what?” I grab the handle and open the door. “Let me just get out and find it. It’s so dark in here.”

Michael, grabs my door keeping me from opening it. “Ma’am, for your safety we ask that you stay in your vehicle.”

“Ohhhhhh-kay. I’m guessing you’re not going to be putting fuel in my car today, are you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Then would you mind closing my fuel door AND THE TRUNK while you’re back there since I can’t get out of my car and do it myself.”

“Sure. First, let me just reach in your window here and…”

Of course, he immediately finds the appropriate lever and the air traffic controller who waved me in earlier gets to work under the hood. I hand Michael a coupon that I brought with me, but he proceeds to tell me that the coupon doesn’t apply to cars requiring full synthetic oil. Clearly, at this point he thinks he has the upper hand until I respond with, “I don’t care. I prefer full synthetic. None of that organic crap for my car. No thank you.”

The air traffic controller woman begins barking a series of commands for me to perform as little beads of sweat start to form on my upper lip.

Step on the brakes. Flash your headlights. Put your right hip in. Put your right hip out. Turn on your left blinker.

At this point, Michael who was making his way back to my window shields his face as he is sprayed with windshield washer fluid. I own up to it.

“My bad. That was my fault. I was looking for my blinker. Do me a favor and please tell that woman that my blinkers are fine and that she can stop.”

He is happy to oblige my request. Then he says, “It looks like your car has been leaking oil because whoever changed it last put this in upside down.” He shows me something round and demonstrates the act of turning it upside down in the proper fashion.

I immediately burst into laughter. “That’s so great. My husband did that. What’s that contraption called so I can make fun of him? I have to write it down. O-ring, you say? Got it. He’s so sweet and stupid.”

Operation Oil Change