@#%*&@*^@#$* car dealerships! Took my car to MIRAMAR at 7 a.m. this morning, which turned into an hour & 1/2 roundtrip complete with rush-hour traffic on the 15 and the expense of lunch for my roommate for burning a half-tank of gas at $3.09/gallon because the "courtesy" shuttle of course only goes a courteous 10 miles. I took my German piece-of-sh*t all the way out there because the Parts Manager, Ingrid, told my mechanic that she can rebuild my ABS unit instead of replacing it, which runs right around the astronomical $1500 mark.
I just had to call my Audi Advisor (again) because he still hasn't gotten me an estimate (at 3:30 p.m. on a Friday, mind you) and he says "That'll be about $1500."
To which I ask, "What about rebuilding it?"
He answers: "We don't rebuild them here."
To which I reply, "Actually, d*ckface, you do, and your Parts Manager, Ingrid, told me as much! Fax me the parts numbers, you lying moron!"
Is it the blonde hair or the vagina that makes me look stupid?!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Wanderlust, Part XXV
Dear Sick-Of-Hearing-About-It,
Well, after all my huffing and puffing and "If not now, when?" talk, my sails have been fully deflated. Renewed my lease for another 6 months. Peru is no longer on the radar. Time to grow up, or so my mom tells me...
Love,
Blooming-Where-I'm-Planted
(or some such nonsense)
Well, after all my huffing and puffing and "If not now, when?" talk, my sails have been fully deflated. Renewed my lease for another 6 months. Peru is no longer on the radar. Time to grow up, or so my mom tells me...
Love,
Blooming-Where-I'm-Planted
(or some such nonsense)
Monday, September 19, 2005
Going on a car hunt, I'm not scared
I've been shopping for a new car these past few weeks. There are only 3 things that I require in this new car (or new-to-me car), and these things are pretty straight forward. So future car salesmen of the world, pay close attention.
1) The car needs to be a 4-door sedan.
2) The car needs to have a manual transmission.
3) The car needs to have a warranty.
End. Of. Story.
Maybe it's because I'm blonde. Maybe it's because I look like a closer relative of Malibu Barbie than Albert Einstein. But, and feel free to speak up if you are of the sleazy car salesman variety, THERE IS NOTHING MORE FRUSTRATING THAN CAR SHOPPING WHEN YOU ARE A WOMAN.
And here is why…
My roommate and I walk onto a German car lot in East County and start browsing. Within three seconds, a gentleman approaches us and asks if he can be of assistance. I politely give him my 3 main criteria for my newish car, and wait expectantly for him to take me by the hand and whisk me from car to car with feverish abandon. And wait… And wait. After more than three seconds of puzzled looks from said gentleman, he speaks up and says, "You don't want a manual transmission." Such conviction from a total stranger!
"Err, yes I do, actually," I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. This guy must be new at this. Or doing a terrible impression of a psychic.
"No, trust me (insert the implied "little lady" here). They're terrible in traffic." He puffs up a little at this, sure that this obvious logic will have me convinced. And just to ram the point home, he steers me toward a nice beige car that is (surprise) an automatic.
"Okay, sir," I say, trying to be reasonable, "maybe you didn't hear me. I want…correction, will drive nothing other than…a car with a stick shift (emphasis on stick just to make him a little uncomfortable). I like cars. I like to drive. Fast. STICK SHIFT or nothing. Capisce?" My roommate is getting settled in for this fight. She's been car shopping with me before.
"Are you sure? I'd never buy a manual," Mr. Salesman states, as if his personal preference has any frame of reference for my driving style. "Yes. Very. Now what do you have on your lot?" I reply, praying that he finally shows me a car that I would actually want to drive. And pay good money for the privilege.
"Well, alright, in that case, why don't you take a look at this cute little convertible up here? You'd look great in this car! It is this pretty light pearl blue with a matching top!" he says excitedly as he starts marching toward the front of the lot.
Laughing and shaking our heads, my roommate and I turn on our smart high heels and stomp purposely in the other direction, finding a souped up black-on-black sedan with more horsepower than Mario Andretti could shake a stick at. "Hey, hombre, let me test drive this car and we can run some figures," I shout to Mr. Still-Not-Getting-It across the tops of unsold automobiles.
His crestfallen eyes look from me…to the car…back to me (blonde hair, fashionable outfit)…back to the car (18" chrome rims, tinted windows). Muttering something about getting his manager, he shuffles inside, only to come out a moment later not with the keys to said sedan, but with said manager in tow. Said manager who also doesn't have the keys to the car I want to test drive. But, oh elation, he does have the keys to a very nice compact 2-door sedan with a user-friendly automatic transmission...
1) The car needs to be a 4-door sedan.
2) The car needs to have a manual transmission.
3) The car needs to have a warranty.
End. Of. Story.
Maybe it's because I'm blonde. Maybe it's because I look like a closer relative of Malibu Barbie than Albert Einstein. But, and feel free to speak up if you are of the sleazy car salesman variety, THERE IS NOTHING MORE FRUSTRATING THAN CAR SHOPPING WHEN YOU ARE A WOMAN.
And here is why…
My roommate and I walk onto a German car lot in East County and start browsing. Within three seconds, a gentleman approaches us and asks if he can be of assistance. I politely give him my 3 main criteria for my newish car, and wait expectantly for him to take me by the hand and whisk me from car to car with feverish abandon. And wait… And wait. After more than three seconds of puzzled looks from said gentleman, he speaks up and says, "You don't want a manual transmission." Such conviction from a total stranger!
"Err, yes I do, actually," I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. This guy must be new at this. Or doing a terrible impression of a psychic.
"No, trust me (insert the implied "little lady" here). They're terrible in traffic." He puffs up a little at this, sure that this obvious logic will have me convinced. And just to ram the point home, he steers me toward a nice beige car that is (surprise) an automatic.
"Okay, sir," I say, trying to be reasonable, "maybe you didn't hear me. I want…correction, will drive nothing other than…a car with a stick shift (emphasis on stick just to make him a little uncomfortable). I like cars. I like to drive. Fast. STICK SHIFT or nothing. Capisce?" My roommate is getting settled in for this fight. She's been car shopping with me before.
"Are you sure? I'd never buy a manual," Mr. Salesman states, as if his personal preference has any frame of reference for my driving style. "Yes. Very. Now what do you have on your lot?" I reply, praying that he finally shows me a car that I would actually want to drive. And pay good money for the privilege.
"Well, alright, in that case, why don't you take a look at this cute little convertible up here? You'd look great in this car! It is this pretty light pearl blue with a matching top!" he says excitedly as he starts marching toward the front of the lot.
Laughing and shaking our heads, my roommate and I turn on our smart high heels and stomp purposely in the other direction, finding a souped up black-on-black sedan with more horsepower than Mario Andretti could shake a stick at. "Hey, hombre, let me test drive this car and we can run some figures," I shout to Mr. Still-Not-Getting-It across the tops of unsold automobiles.
His crestfallen eyes look from me…to the car…back to me (blonde hair, fashionable outfit)…back to the car (18" chrome rims, tinted windows). Muttering something about getting his manager, he shuffles inside, only to come out a moment later not with the keys to said sedan, but with said manager in tow. Said manager who also doesn't have the keys to the car I want to test drive. But, oh elation, he does have the keys to a very nice compact 2-door sedan with a user-friendly automatic transmission...
Thursday, September 01, 2005
L.A. Lunch Solo Mission
The people sitting behind me live a life of true burdens--the lady of the house is planning her day--mapping out naptime, gym time, all she has is TIME to fill up with her self-riteous self-preservation. They're enjoying a $50 lunch, probably to be followed by a $250 dinner at a swanky "A" list joint downtown. I bet they live in a condo. He's wondering what I'm writing. He's assuming I'm famous. And I am, in my own mind.
It's hot here lately. The heat doesn't shimmer off the blacktop, it crackles. I wish that lazy waiter would bring their check so I'd have the shade of this umbrella all to myself. A group of women behind me all order salads to split. They are discussing the accomplishments of the 3-year olds in their lives. Private baton lessons for one, violin lessons for another--"amazing little people"--learning life lessons. Little people who already need personal assistants to keep their schedules straight. Send them to New Orleans to help with the clean up. That'd be a valuable life lesson.
El Aye. Land of one-upping. Land of the almost-discovered. New couple behind me--an agent and a prospect. I already know he'll be ordered to get new headshots (he's bald now and his photos show a floppy mass of dark hair). He looks vaguely like Bruce Willis but sounds more Al Roker. Less man-of-action, more weatherman. Works out of his home, something to do with repo's. Definitely not glamorous. Don't see his career taking off any time soon, especially with representation who barely speaks English. Her agency is in Koreatown (Alhambra. Must be at least 105 degrees there today). Snap. Crackle. Pop.
It's hot here lately. The heat doesn't shimmer off the blacktop, it crackles. I wish that lazy waiter would bring their check so I'd have the shade of this umbrella all to myself. A group of women behind me all order salads to split. They are discussing the accomplishments of the 3-year olds in their lives. Private baton lessons for one, violin lessons for another--"amazing little people"--learning life lessons. Little people who already need personal assistants to keep their schedules straight. Send them to New Orleans to help with the clean up. That'd be a valuable life lesson.
El Aye. Land of one-upping. Land of the almost-discovered. New couple behind me--an agent and a prospect. I already know he'll be ordered to get new headshots (he's bald now and his photos show a floppy mass of dark hair). He looks vaguely like Bruce Willis but sounds more Al Roker. Less man-of-action, more weatherman. Works out of his home, something to do with repo's. Definitely not glamorous. Don't see his career taking off any time soon, especially with representation who barely speaks English. Her agency is in Koreatown (Alhambra. Must be at least 105 degrees there today). Snap. Crackle. Pop.
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