Although I consider myself a fairly well educated person who is striving to improve myself here at RWC, I find that many lessons are learned the hard way. I learned such a lesson when the little message light on my car flashed “change engine oil” each time I started the engine. Like many, I ignored it for a while and eventually, when it seemed to burn brighter and longer, I found the time to head to the oil change place. Previously my husband had always taken care of this maintenance, but I thought “how difficult could it be to go to one of these quick lube places and get a deal for $29.99?” As I pulled up to the garage doors, which magically glided open like a Disney ride, I was ushered in by several young men dressed identically and guided for the first time onto those scary ramps.
“Good morning,” a cheerful man said, smiling through my window. “What can we do for you today?” Now considering this was simply an oil lube shop, I had assumed that was all they would do.
Immediately my incompetence flag went up for all to see, and I said, “Ummm, my light says I need an oil change?”
“No problem,” he replied. “Just pop your hood.” As I fumbled around trying to figure out how to “pop” the hood, I failed to notice Mr. Cheerful rubbing his hands in glee. Within seconds I was swarmed by an army of ant like men as some headed under the van and others started inflating my tires with ominous valves attached to curly wires that dropped from the ceiling.
Mr. Cheerful headed back and informed me that my tires should be rotated, as it makes them last longer, and he asked if I would like them to do that for me. At that moment I took time to call my husband, who said it wouldn’t be a bad idea, so I confidently nodded. Within seconds my car moved upward a foot, and I felt more rumblings from the mysterious below.
Again Mr. Cheerful appeared at my window and showed me a dirty air filter (at least I had an inkling to what that was) and said it needed a change. He also asked what kind of oil I would like, to which my intelligent reply was “the black stuff?” He even showed me the full dip stick afterwards, so I would be able to sleep at night.
By now I was beginning to feel even smaller in my seat, and when he arrived with a small metal object he called a PCV valve, I was totally open for the kill. He wiped his thumb across the oily top saying that this is what happened and asking if I would like him to replace it. By now I was simply nodding. After all, who wants gunk on their PCV valve?
After what seemed like an eternity, I numbly pulled out of the magic doors with waves from the ant army and Mr. Cheerful, who held a paid bill of $79.99.
I was unsure of what had just happened to me and I called my husband. He got his laugh for the day, especially when I tried to explain the PCV valve. He immediately said, “I bet he ran his thumb over it to remove gunk. They always do that.” So, lesson learned at the school of quick lube…beware the ant men!