Too Lazy to Fail

It is impossible for me to save money by changing my own oil. A local dealership will do it for $12.95, which is about what it costs me to buy 5 quarts of oil and a filter.

However, I can (at least in theory) do it myself in half an hour or less, in the comfort of my own driveway, without having to drive to the dealership and then sit for two hours while my car progresses through the queue of vehicles. I can also make sure things are done correctly: a friend recently had a Wal-Mart greasemonkey leave the oil cap off of her car when finishing up, nearly killing the engine. On multiple occassions in high school I had Jiffy Lube guys short my car by two quarts.

Also, if I do things myself I can rotate my own tires in about 10 minutes with no expense, and save between $8 and $15, depending on the shop.

Finally, it’s a good excuse to get in and under the engine of my car, looking for leaks and worn belts. It’s never a bad thing to have a clear understanding of the state of your vehicle.

I had not changed the oil in any car since I had last lived at a place that would permit it, several years ago. I had never done the deed to a Taurus/Sable, either, though I have done just about everything else that can be done by an amatuer to my Sable, usually out of financial desperation and with a frightened eye toward the repair manual. I figured that, not being familiar with the task, it would take me longer than I might expect it to regularly.

So uh, do you know anyone who has given themselves an electric shock while changing their oil? Now you do. Apparently there are exposed electrical contacts about two inches below the base of the oil filter in 97-2001 Taurus/Sable sedans. Who knew? That, combined with a purpose-bought metal wrench not having room to be applied correctly, resulted in fire moving up my right arm, a shower of sparks, acrid smoke, and oil pouring from the still-attached used oil filter.

I was terribly afraid that I had done damage to the electrical system of my car. A quick trip to the auto parts place in my wife’s car, and I returned with the rubber strap wrench that I would have bought in the first place had I not had a fascination with the unique movement of the metal shock-wrench.

Maybe next time it will be a bit less traumatic. I swore at several points that it wasn’t worth it, and that I’d never do it myself again, but hey, it’s worth at least one more shot, because I already bought the oil.

Here’s a close-up of the hole blown in the filter, presumably heated by the electricity running between it and the contacts through the wrench:

Be careful out there, people.

Sorry for two lolcat posts in a row, but Tracie snapped this picture and it was too good to pass up.

(Scene: Paul and Tracie are laying in bed, looking at the ceiling. They’re not doing anything kinky, but just talking, preparing for sleep.)

Tracie: So did you hear that Rowling has declared that Dumbledore is gay?

Paul: Yeah, and what amazed me was the report that after the initial gasps at the announcement, there was cheering and applause. It’s like it’s no longer good enough to merely tolerate the homosexual lifestyle, but now we as a society are reveling in it and holding it up as something to be admired.

Tracie: Yeah…

Paul: Yeah…

Tracie: …

Paul: …

(Paul attempts to break up the awkward silence after his mini-sermon.)

Paul: Snape kills Dumbledore, you know.

Tracie: Yeah, I know. Do you think they’ll prosecute it as a hate crime now?

*bangbangbang*

(Paul looks up from his book, wondering if the pounding is at his back door, or at that of his neighbors. The cats dashing down the stairs and into the kitchen confirms that the ‘knocking’ is for him. He jogs to the door, grateful to be wearing pants, and locks the chain, figuring it’s probably someone with a key here to do maintenance.)

“Who is it!” (More an exclamation than an inquiry. Oh well.)

“It’s me!”

(pause)

“Who’s ‘me’“?

“It’s Ann from up the street a ways!”

(Oh, that clears everything up. Sigh. Paul unlocks the deadbolt and doorknob, opening the door with the chain still engaged.)

“How can I help you, Ann?”

“Was this the house my boyfriend came to last night?”

“No, no visitors last night.”

“He walked into the wrong house last night when he came back from the pool, and now the police are arresting him!”

“I’m uh, sorry to hear that. No, we didn’t hear from him.”

“It’s not his fault! He just walked in and went up the stairs before he realized he wasn’t at my house. He didn’t take anything or hurt anyone or anything! It’s not his fault! He was drunk, that’s all, and he made a mistake.”

“He’s lucky he didn’t get shot.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“He was drunk! He didn’t mean to do anything wrong, and now they’re going to arrest him for aggravated burglary!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I know that must be hard for you, but he didn’t come here. We lock our doors.”

(Thinking: Doesn’t aggravated burglary mean that it involved either a weapon or intent to harm?)

“Do you know anyone who can give me a ride to go see him? My license got suspended.”

“No, I uh… I would be more than happy to call a cab for you, ma’am.”

No, I don’t have the money for a cab. Thanks anyway.

“Good luck, ma’am.”

Today we watched a cat on TV.

Cloud was inspired to strike a provocative pose.

So a few moments after I made that last post, I leaned back and took a sip of my soda. It was at that moment that the heads of all three bolts decided that they didn’t have to take this anymore, and promptly sheered off. My exact thoughts as I plummeted toward the floor, I kid you not, were as follows:

“I knew this would eventually happen.”
“I hope there’s nothing sharp or hard on the floor. I think I got everything when I cleaned up earlier. Did I?”
“Don’t spill the soda!”

So there I was, my calves resting on the seat of the chair, my back still in contact with the now-detached portion of the backrest, my head on the floor…

and my hand holding aloft my half-full can of Diet Mountain Dew, not a drop of it spilled.

So I still have my half soda, which pleases me, but now the bottom half of my back is warm and tingling, which I’m not sure is a good sign.

In high school, I worked at a used video game store. We, as employees, would often find ourselves gifted with store credit. I used this to expand my hoard of Nintendo Entertainment System games, and eventually gathered up over 200 of them.

After I started working real jobs, started going to school full-time, and got married, I found that the NES with accompanying boxes of games sat in the closet, becoming less and less valuable as long-lived game makers re-released their old games on new systems.

So Tracie and I made a difficult decision, and I started listing the more valuable games on eBay. Being left with some very good but not very valuable games, I got in touch with PDB about the possibility of selling my entire setup to him in one lot.

Negotiations continue, but in the mean time I’ve been packing it all up and preparing it for transport. Then came the admission from my dear wife: “Oh, is that the gun thingie? I never got to play Duck Hunt as a kid…”

Well, you know I couldn’t just let that one slide.

She got some of them…

But some of them were lucky. Oh so very lucky.

When things looked desperate, I picked up the Zapper and got down to the terrible business at hand. Many ducks were slain.

Then Tracie played some Tetris.

The cats were not amused, choosing instead to play in the boxes.

Farewell, dear Nintendo.