Bill, who thinks he can fix anything (and usually can) was on the internet yesterday morning trying to figure out if and how he could at least diagnose my problem. (You might recall that this past May 1, I also had car issues which resulted in the purchase of a new battery. At that time, I mentioned that Volkswagens are nigh-to-impossible to fix on your own.)
Anyhoo, he was watching a You Tube video which I couldn’t help but overhear since I was sitting a foot-and-a-half from him at the kitchen table. In this video, a man was talking about how to diagnose the problem. He said it was important to determine if it was “no crank, no start” or “crank, no start” as you make your diagnosis.
I called the dealer at 7:00:03 yesterday morning (they opened at 7), and barely-patiently explained to the man who answered that I had brought my car in on November 19 for a (and I’m pretty sure my voice dropped into a very businesslike alto) “no crank, no start problem.”
I’m almost certain I could hear his eyes roll.
“What time will you bring in the car?” he asked.
Did you not hear the part about “no crank, no start?” In your opinion, what does this mean?
My next call was to my friends at AAA, all of whom would go on my Christmas card list if I bothered to send Christmas cards. That ship sailed about 15 years ago.
They were as friendly as ever, and promised a flatbed tow truck would be at our house within “120 minutes.” (That would be two hours for us non-AAA folks. But believe me, I am not complaining about my AAA homies.)
In fact, within 15 minutes we received a call that a tow truck would arrive within 30 minutes. Have I lost you yet?
Because I’m now 61 years old (32,082,889 minutes in AAA-Speak) and thereby eligible for senior citizen discounts and crankiness, I began complaining (to Bill, my captive audience) about how my battery was only seven months old and my car had been pronounced a mere one month ago as being fixed and now we’ll have to rent a car or get a loaner and I’ve got things to do because it’s Christmas season, and yada yada yada.
As it happens, I was on the phone making several appointments for things I had to have done prior to our leaving for the winter in Arizona when Mr. Tow Truck Driver arrived. It didn’t matter, because I had by that time turned the whole matter over to poor Bill, and really for no better reason than that he has a penis.
But here’s the thing. Mr. Nice Tow Truck Driver (who apparently was big and burly, resembling Hoss Cartright for all of you Baby Boomers) took one look at my battery, tightened the battery cable that we HADN’T been jiggling because we didn’t know it existed – and when I say we, I mean Bill – and the car started. It took less time to fix than it’s taken me to write this blog post.
I called the VW service department to let them know I wouldn’t be bringing in the car, foregoing the opportunity to scream at them because they hadn’t noticed this loose cable when I brought the car in a month ago. No percentage in that. I might be seeing them before I know it, and they might do the car maintenance version of spitting in your food.
So, as I write this post, Nana’s Yellow Bug is up and running. Hold your breath.