Just Change My Oil

I know I’m a bad car owner. I do my best, but I’m hard on things I own and cars are no exception.

I am well aware of the importance of having my car's oil changed, tires rotated, etc etc. But for some reason I dread having this most routine bit of maintenance done like no other chore in my life.

Coincidentally, the three month or 3000 mile relief that follows getting my oil changed rivals only the relief of urinating after holding it for way too long. I realize that may be a little TMI, but I think a spot on analogy is worth a little immature potty humor.

I used to be able to change my first car’s oil. My little red Festiva was small enough I could get to where I needed to get to and if all else failed I could just pick up the entire car and shake the excess oil out if I needed to.

My current car seems to suffer from what most modern cars seem to suffer from. Something I call “modern automaker dickish engineering”. This is where they put the things that you will need to access the most, such as the oil plug and the oil filter, in the most hard to reach places possible. The tin-foil hat wearing conspiracy theorist in me wonders if they do this in the hopes you will take it into your dealer and have it done for you. And while you are there they can ‘discover’ a laundry list of tiny metal tubes and other expensive things things that are about to make your car explode at any moment.

The remedy for this is I usually have my brother or dad do it for me. They have all the necessary jacks, stands, ramps and so forth to perch my deadly heavy car up high enough to get to the oil plug. Even after my car is perched precariously upon a plethora of car raising devices the oil filter is still a pain to get to, even from underneath.

All of these difficulties make me feel guilty bothering my family members for this routine chore. In addition my brother and father both have fleets of vehicles of their own to maintain, and in my brother's case a plethora of friends who need the same help I do.

The only other option is to take my dirty oil having vehicle to an oil change place. The problem with those places is they talk to you like you’re five. They do all these complementary routine checks that you didn’t ask them for and they ask you for all kinds of data about your car:

How many miles since this? How many miles since that? When was the last time you hugged your car? Can I have your phone number, address, date of birth, social security number, and blood type? ,...”it’s just for our records.....” and so on and so on.

After I answer those questions to the best of my ability without being a smart ass, I then get to sit in a dingy waiting room reading four month old copies of Redbook magazine*. Not the worst fate in the world, but then I normally get called up for “something they need to ask me about”. This makes me feel like getting called to the principal's office in elementary school. The other waiting room people all hiss and moan “OOOOOOOOOOhhhhh! You’re in trouuuuuuuuu-ble!!” then whisper “what a bad car owner” to each other.

Then, the lovely folks working at the oil change establishment tell me that this part here (them holding up a piece of metal that could have come from anywhere) “Is really bad” and they’d be happy to replace it for only eleventy-hundred dollars**. But usually they word it in such a way that it’s as condescending as possible. “Did you realize this (fill in the blank) was REALLY bad and it could kill your neighbors gerbil? You REALLY should have that looked at, you bad, stupid car owner you...”

Listen, when I came in, I knew my car was leaking some Anti-freeze, maybe some oil, and the carburetor was filled with yogurt for some reason, but I didn’t ask you to remind me of that. I asked you to CHANGE MY OIL! So even if the engine is ON FIRE, get a fire extinguisher, put it out, and then GET BACK TO CHANGING MY OIL AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!! This January 2009 issue of Working Woman isn’t gonna read itself!

As you might have picked up by now, I’m not very big on having my oil professionally changed, and haven’t done so in years. I’ve managed to rely on pestering my father and brother.

Recently though my brother was off on his honeymoon, had a bachelor party and got married, (not necessarily in that order) so I’ve felt even worse about pestering him to change my oil. I’ve let my car get way past its designated oil bladder drainage period. Therefore I’m going to take the plunge and masochistically pay to have someone treat me like I’m five and talk to me like a used car salesman all while making me feel about three inches tall.

The way I figure, it could at least make good fodder for a blog,...and I’m sure there is an October 2008 issue of Good Housekeeping in the waiting room with my name on it.

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* Neat, “Five ways to turn on your man” and “How to lose 5 pounds without amputation!” what a great issue!

** If they get to make up numbers, so can I.