I’m a lot more easy-going in real life than is my Social Media persona: a rather hellish brand it is.
As long as it doesn’t confront me to the point of being totally inconvenienced or emotionally wigged-out, I’m OK with unexpected situations up to a point. Shit happens, pardon the cliché.
So now it’s a week already since I’ve had my car towed in to be serviced, as explained thoroughly in the past few entries. I’m still waiting to get it back, not that this is a hassle in theory; for I have a loaner to get me around.
My only concern here is to have the Cooper fixed properly so I can pass state inspection. At this rate, I might be able to push off the yearly obligation for another month into August.
It’s getting late in the day, so I’m suspecting the repairs are going into tomorrow, not a problem for me. Had I no transportation, or having to pay a rental charge so far, my hot-headed, Social Media intolerance would turn me into that repair shop’s worst nightmare.
What’s aggravating is the ongoing parking-lot vandalism, which continues to effect me. Yesterday, I noted the “tire” indicator light was on in the loaner minivan. Turns out the right rear tire was under-inflated.
All the valve-stem caps were in place, except for the missing one on the respective tire, leading me to think someone had let the air out again, but this time on the minivan. Fortunately, they must have been spooked by someone before letting all the air out, allowing me to drive for re-inflating it.
Just goes to show you, there’s always something. My dad used to say my luck is so bad, I’d get in trouble for being on the wrong side of the street—whatever that meant—yet, it still made sense to me.
Stopping at the nearest locality to get air, which ain’t free anymore, I had get quarters to feed the machine, a dollar’s worth for three minutes. Come to think of it, filling stations have been charging for many decades now.
Imagine that! Kids today are flabbergasted when their grandfathers tell them air was once free at gas stations.
“Right, Grandpa; now tell me how you used to get green stamps there too.” Youngsters can be such wisenheimers.
That blasted air contraption couldn’t fill a bicycle tire. After the allotted time, the minivan’s tire had lost inflation. Not in the mood for arguing about a buck, I left in search of a reliable machine to extinguish that dang idiot light next to the speedometer.
A friend told me, after my complaining the last time this happened, Wawa service stations give away free air, to where I headed toward the nearest one, about five miles away. Enough air was left in the tire for the journey.
As my stellar luck would have it, they didn’t have an air pump. Neither did the next filling station.
Whatever happened to those wonderful dispensers of yesteryear, the ones you would crank a handle to set the prescribed amount, that rang a bell after each pound of air pressure had filled the void in the tire? Now only square, tin contraptions with a small pump inside of it can barely fill up a lawn-mower tire.
Heading back towards home, I stopped at one last place, a filling station and convenience store, with combination vacuum cleaners and air dispensers. I needed bread, milk, orange juice and some junk food anyway.
Eureka, the machine filled the tire in seconds. I’ll know now where to go the next time.
So wraps up another weekly entry of drivel in my journal. No call from the Cooper’s service advisor at this point. It’s 3:17 p.m. I hope to get some good new later.
Thanks for stopping by and reading my ramblings. It’s a way for me to blow off steam. Have a great rest of your week.