the oil change

I went for an oil change yesterday. My car was already a little overdue for one and I wanted to get it done quickly, so I went to one of those places where you drive in and wait in the car while they change your oil in about five minutes. I usually avoid these places because I hate listening to sales plugs for things my car doesn't need and then being treated like an idiot for turning them down. These places also treat women much differently than they do men, since they think women are suckers who know nothing about cars. I was once told that my coolant had gone bad because it had turned green. Yes, green: the same color it was when it was first put in. Anyway, I put this all aside for the convenience of a quick oil change. 

Oil Guy: What can we do for you today, Miss?

Aha! Oil Guy's first fatal mistake: calling me "Miss". I hate that. It sounds condescending, especially coming from a sleazeball who's about to lie to you to sell you as many overpriced car parts as possible. I'm a grown, married woman with a kid. You can call me "Ma'am", thanks. 

Me: Just an oil change.

Oil Guy (checking the computer): Hmm, now we need to know what kind of oil to put in your car. It's been so long since you've been here that we don't have a record of what we used.

Okay. That's just a lie. He's looking at the computer screen at the record of my last oil change. He's just looking for a good excuse to talk me into buying the most expensive oil. I listen to his spiel about how the outrageously expensive synthetic oil is "made for" my car, because Hondas only need oil changes every 5,000 miles. Oh, and regular old oil would dry up and ruin my engine.

Me: The conventional oil will be fine.

Oil Guy shakes his head. His expression suggests grave disappointment that I have failed to recognize the extreme danger of using conventional oil in my car.

Meanwhile Oil Guy's partner in crime, "Skippy" let's call him, has been hard at work under the hood. These guys clearly have a showy routine they perform to make as much money as they can from customers who know nothing about cars. The scheme is to be condescendingly nice to me, then discover something wrong and explain all of the terrible things that will happen to my car if I don't pay them to do this or that. If I decline, I get a sudden cold shoulder (until they offer something else).

Skippy plays the good cop, and Oil Guy plays the bad cop. Skippy gives me big, goofy, fake looking grins and speaks to me very slowly with lots of gestures in case I, as a pea-brained female, can't comprehend what's going on. Oil Guy uses lots of fancy car vocabulary words to make me, a pea-brained female, feel secure that he knows what's best for my car and my wallet. He turns to scare tactics and badgering if I show any resistance.

So Oil Guy pokes his head behind the hood to see what Skippy has to show him.

Oil Guy (in a very serious tone, then making a note on his clipboard): Oh yeah, I'm gonna have to go ahead and recommend that.

He comes back around by my window holding a clean, nearly brand new air filter.  

Oil Guy: See how this air filter is grey? When it turns grey like this it needs to be replaced.

He gives a speech about how dirty my air filter is, and that my fuel economy will be terrible if I don't replace it. The filter is still white. It looks almost brand new. Does this guy think I'm a complete moron?

Me: No, that filter is fine.

Oil Guy (an incredulous look on his face): Really?

For dramatic effect, he shakes the filter and dust falls out.

Me: That filter is almost brand new. It's barely dirty. You can shake it out again and put it back in.

Oil Guy is very disappointed in me. He loves selling air filters. He isn't used to being talked back to about them. He makes it clear that I am really quite foolish and completely wrong about that air filter. But after that he stops trying to sell me stuff. Instead he talks about all the services he's putting in the computer to recommend the next time I come for an oil change.

Finally the ordeal is over. Skippy instructs me to start the ignition and prepares to direct me out of the garage bay. Because I am incapable of independently driving a very short distance in a straight line. He maintains the big, fake, goofy smile while directing me with his arms and calling out reassuring lines like "Keep going! Great job! You're doing great!". Seriously, Skippy? I want to puke. By the time I reach him after that precarious exit, I've considered several ways to wipe that condescending grin off his face. But, I just put up the window and drive away...

never to return again.