Oil change

I had the day off today, and to make myself feel like I actually accomplished something of value, other than catching up on my Tivo'd Sarah Silverman shows (and let's be honest, porn), I went out and got my oil changed. Don't ask me how many miles it's been since my last oil change. Don't ask me, because I don't know. I pulled that dang sticker off my windshield a few months ago, because I was already embarrassed some passenger would see it.

And I certainly wasn't going to keep that sticker on my car when I actually got my oil changed. I don't need any disapproving look from some 22-year-old Jiffy Lube "mechanic." They are mechanics like dental hygienists are dentists. Like chiropractors are real doctors. Like Dane Cook is a comedian. Like Omorosa is a celebrity. Celebrity Apprentice, my foot.

So I drove into the neighborhood Jiffy Lube and Henry--at least that's the name embroidered on his shirt--asked me if I'm here for the Jiffy Lube Signature Service. Now, it's been a long time, so I don't know what that means. That sounded like a whole bunch of expensive extras like no oil dripped on the engine or no oily footprints left on my floor mats.

"No, Henry, you're not going to trick me. I'm just here for the basic oil change."

"That's what the Signature Service is, sir." I hate when they "sir" me.

"Can you pop your hood real quick?"

Apparently, no, I can't. Maybe it was the "real quick" that put the pressure on. Or the fact that the last time I popped my own hood, Brad and Jennifer were still married, but I couldn't find the hood release latch. I fumbled for a good 15 seconds until Henry, with his fancy G.E.D., came to the rescue.

To get out of it, I was going to tell him this wasn't my car. It's my stupid wife's car. And to kill two birds with one stone, I could have told him that's why there's only one pint of oil left in there.

But I didn't. I decided it's better not to weave a tangled web just to gain Henry's respect. Hell, there's no way to gain Henry's respect, even on my best day. I'm sure the Henry's of the world are disdainful of any able-bodied man who even shows up to their shop, unwilling or unable to change his own oil.

I could change my oil. I have done it before, but not in this car. I assume it has a oil filter just like the Chevy Chevette I learned to drive on, but I couldn't tell you where it is. I used to have an oil filter wrench and a bucket, but it's long gone or at the bottom of some box in the garage.

The truth is even the emasculation is well worth the $39 I forked out today.

As I paid, Henry explained that they've put a little sticker on my windshield to remind me when it's time for my next oil change. Good, I needed something to wrap my gum in.

By the way, TiVo Merv Griffin's Crosswords on Thursday, Jan. 24. I'm a contestant. See if I win, and let me know.