It was hurry up and wait last Saturday morning as I rushed the van to the mechanic in response to a smell Jodi had noticed a few days earlier. It kinda smelled like burning rubber, so naturally I figured it was just the roasted tires from all the drag racing. Turns out it was actually transmission fluid leaking from the filter housing and spraying over the exhaust, requiring a new filter and gasket. Sounds cheap, right? Not the case.
So after an hour or so of Field and Stream, coffee from a styrofoam cup, and the incessant mutterings of a mentally ill guy in the waiting area, I was more than ready to pack up the big top and move this circus on down the road. When we arrived in Lost Nation a glorious reception awaited. Boisterous voices, and the buzz and excitement one would expect to surround an occasion fueled by prime rib, wine, and Christmas cheer.
With bellies full of goat meat...er, I mean beautifully prepared prime rib, we made our way to the sacred area for the gift exchange. Many lovely things were unwrapped as Maura wallowed in the scraps of paper and bows. Before her lie a generous offering of neatly wrapped gifts which awaited their undoing.
Everybody got everything they wanted and more, and we knew it was only a matter of time before Ms. Maura got into the liquor cabinet.
At some point during the next couple days something dreadful happened to our van. Whatever the cause, it soon became apparent that the engine no longer held oil. With 240 miles ahead of us, the prospect of getting home without major repairs seemed doubtful, while the familiar trip home grew ever daunting. After filling up with oil (one quart of which being a $10 "stop leak" formula) we set out on the first leg of the drive. Forty five miles later we stopped for lunch and a status check in Dubuque, at which point we made a grim discovery. There was absolutely no oil on the dipstick, meaning we went through five quarts of oil in less than fifty miles.
Not good.
Not good.
We grabbed a couple quarts here and there along the way until we got to the Prarie du Chien Wal-Mart where I proceeded to buy four five quart jugs for the drive home. At one point while stopped at a gas station for a complete oil fill up I tried to clean off the rear window with the squeegee/sponge wand only to find it completely oil-covered, thus coating the sponge for the next guy to smear across his windshield. Crap. Seemed like that was the theme for the trip, because I'm sure people were probably spinning off into the ditch behind us as we literally dumped thirty gallons of motor oil onto the highway. With the awareness that comes with being a complete stress-ball and the diligent use of the tripometer, we managed to dock the Valdez in the garage until further inspection.
Aside from wishing I would've asked for a barrel of oil for Christmas, everything was great. I hope you all had a wonderfully less eventful holiday. We'll probably play it safe with Seacrest on New Year's Eve.
3 comments:
Yikes. That does not sound like the boisterous Holiday ride home I was expecting. I hope its something simple like the oil plug fell off or something.
...I think 80's KIT sprayed oil on the ground to dissuade enemies in hot pursuit.
Did you have Peter Gunn playing on the stereo? And a chasis mounted machine gun? And a smokescreen with the left thumb?
I already know you had the right thumb pressed the entire time.
Watch out for the limos that pull up beside you with a shotgun. And for the tire-slasher hubcap guys. They're mean. And the short stubby cars that try to whack you off the road. Just drive into the back of a semi to get upgrades, and get a helocopter after you get really far.
Sooo. That's pretty much everything.
Oh, wait. Be a boat, not a helo. Get SAMs for the helos. Then watch "I am Sam."
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