DON'T GET ME STARTED. WAIT, YOU ALREADY DID.

I’m going to have a whinge.  Let’s face it, apparently it’s what we women do best, and if it were an Olympic sport, I sincerely hope I would be a contender for at least the silver after I get this off my chest.

 
I spent a good, solid hour yesterday cleaning my car from top to bottom, inside and out. If you’ve read about my cesspit of a car before, you’ll know this is quite a rare event for me.  But because today was my 40,000km service (let’s just pretend the  odometer doesn’t sit at approximately forty-six thousand k’s right now) I figured I better make the Jazz pretty for the mechanics, lest they think I don’t lub her enough.

 
So, after ripping off the car seat cover that was inadvertently involved in a game of hold the coffee yesterday, I discovered some disgusting and unidentified scuzz.  Could be mould, could be dirt, could be a combo.  Hmm, that neck rash Sam is sporting suddenly starting to make sense.  Anyhoo, the scuzz was the least of my problems. 

 
Even after the cleanfest, the fact that the drive-thru kid at KFC (don’t judge me, it was a Friday night and I was rooted) dropped all of our Pepsi max cans on the bitumen which in turn, caused them to explode and basically shoot paint stripper at my duco, didn't really bother me.


It wasn’t even the fact we had to get up at with the sparrows fart to get the car in for servicing at the local Honda dealership that got to me.  Well, it bothered Maddie who has comfortably fallen into the teenage sloth fest that sees her sleep in until lunchtime if allowed. 
 

No, not much worried me actually, prior to rocking up to the big fuck-off, newly built Honda mechanical workshop.  I got out of my car and waited like a plubber at reception waiting for someone to acknowledge me and then I handed over my keys. That’s when I noticed something was amiss. 

 
See these guys have pre-printed invoices, seeing as it’s a standard service and all, and I noticed the figures 703.  Oh, I thought to myself, that must be the code for the 40K service.   Doubtful.    So I decided to ask what price I could expect to pay when I picked it up.

 
Now, here is where I should tell you that this is my first ever, brand new car.  As such, I swore on a bible to Phil (OK, so we don’t own a bible, but you know, I was deadly serious and shit) that I would a) keep the car clean, tidy and the children would NEVER, EVER eat in it and  b) I would religiously log book service it.  One out of two ain’t bad.  Oh shit, that’s two out of three ain’t bad.  Damn you Meatloaf.

 
Anyway, I made vows and I intended to stay true to them.  But let’s face it, when you spend a fair amount of your time in the car when your kids are particularly hungry, the vow* of though shalt not inhale French fries whilst you drive around in the Jazz, goes out the (electric) window.

 
Again, I digress.  The servicing part I have stuck to. For the first time in my life, I have looked after a car mechanically and in fear of voiding my 5 year warranty, have always taken it to the Dealership I brought it from.   You know what?  I know they did fuck all when I dropped it in for the last, oh, say 5 services.  I’m well aware that they just topped up the oil and drove it through their carwash and I happily parted with $200 for the privilege.

 
But this time, well this time, when I asked the question I mentioned so long ago in this post, the smarmy front reception guy said to me “Oh, $700 assuming we don’t find any trouble”.  What the fuck?  Dude, if you find any “trouble” it will be me, kicking you in the nuts for ripping me off.

 

Still, I handed over my keys.  I mean, I'd made that vow.  I wanted a good, safe and warrantied up car.  And hey, I expected it to be a little more this time, but not more than $400.   Walking back to my waiting husband and his idling car, Jack yelled to me at about 1000 decibels through his open window, that he had “just found snot up his nose”. I watched my family faces change from gleeful to confused as I turned and walked back towards the dealership.  

 
I went back inside and got my keys from Smarm and made a vague excuse of bringing it back soon and "not expecting it to cost so much".  Like he gave a shit.  It just meant he could go home earlier on a Saturday. 


Phil cursed a lot on the way home.  There was a lot of “That’s bullshit” and “Seven hundred dollars?” being bandied back and forth.  I got home, rang around and found a great place that will do it for, get this, two hundred and fifty dollars.    No voided warranty, no planting my foot into anybodys genitals**, it truly is a win win situation.

 
* I think I am confusing vows and commandments somehow.

** I'm pretty sure I’ve never actually kicked anyone in the nuts.  Although, my memory is hazy and I may or may not have kicked my brother in the ghoulies in my pre-teen years.  Sorry Les.