Tilly got put in the shop yesterday. She had a little problem that caused her to return to the body shop. My insurance got me a "free" rental. "Free" as I know I'll pay for it through my premiums.
The rental pick-up was nice enough. I got the car, drove it the mile home and didn't notice anything strange. The nice counter guy showed me how to adjust the seat, open the boot and such. Fine, fine, fine... just want to get home and nurse my wallet which feels injured by my deductible.
This morning, totally new story. I needed to get into the office today. So I leave the house, go to the car and then realize that I have no way to open the truck. The Saturn has only keys and no remote entry. Then the trunk - there is no slot for a key. I have to go around to the front door, unlock it and then press the button on the door to get the trunk unlocked. At lunch, I noticed that the passenger door doesn't rate high enough to get a slot for a key. So, if I were a gentleman and wanted to open the door for a guest, I'd have to open the driver side door, unlock the car and then run around back to the passenger side. What a production!
Little things... little things make a car acceptable.
My drive in was unresponsive and cushy - just as I would expect from an American car. The only thing is that the turn signals don't auto-cancel. They just keep going. I ended up having my idiot sign on for a solid mile. Maybe this car just has some wear & tear. The counter guy tells me that he get the cars that are just about going to die. Our little nowhere outpost doesn't get the mini's or 300's or any fun cars... we get the about-to-be-sold-to-unaware-consumers. Joy.
The last bit of note is that my drive, due to lack of MP3 connectivity, was dominated by local radio. As usually I have either BBC Radio One or my iPod filling my ears when on the road, I learned that my "just West of Ohio" neighborhood has an abundance of God-Radio. I couldn't help but feel bad for the faithful listeners, as they get really the short end of the drum-stick when it comes to music. The God-Rock puts God before the rhythm, which is marginally better than the hymns sung by the Battle-of-the-Choir competitions. Bad music and men who sound as sleazy as a vat of french fry grease. There is no good to be found there. I have to surf the stations to keep from going insane. Anyone want me to call them on my drive home? Or shall I learn the value of silence?
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