It's time for my car to have its 150,000 mile tune-up. Actually, it was time for that 5,000 miles ago, but I'm really good at procrastinating.
I'm trying a new place this time. Normally I go to the dealership, because... I don't really know why I go there. It's inconvenient and I always feel like I'm getting ripped off. Note that I have no information one way or another as to whether I really am getting ripped off, so my feeling about it is the only thing I have to go on. Anyhow, I've decided that if I'm going to get fleeced, I might as well go somewhere that's conveniently located, so why not the place that I walk the dogs past every morning?
When I called for an appointment, the guy asked if I had the maintenance records. That's where my ability to pretend that I'm an adult fell apart. I'm supposed to save that stuff? Now they tell me?
I guess I was supposed to learn by example on this one. Thinking back, I'm fairly sure my parents kept a folder of everything related to each car they owned. However, my parents also kept a log book and wrote down the mileage every time they put gas in the car, so obviously they're just insane. (This obsessive record keeping was useful when the gas gauge stopped working in the van, though, until the odometer stopped working as well.)
So now I have to go into my new mechanic's tomorrow morning and admit that I have no idea what anyone has ever done with the car. Great.
I was feeling somewhat stupid because of this, but then I happened to talk to Jon (my cubicle neighbor who looks a lot like Santa Claus). His Prius was in the shop Wednesday because it needed a new battery -- not the regular battery but the other one.
Then I found out that he hadn't done any maintenance on that car for the last five years, also known as 85,000 miles. None. Not even an oil change.
At least I've done... something. I just can't prove it.