I start to take the dogs for their morning walk, put my foot wrong, and come down on the side of my ankle with a pain I thought was going to knock me out.<\/p>\n
After five minutes of sitting in the road seeing stars, I’m able to get up and hobble back to the house. Dogs are looking at me like I’m totally betraying them. “But … but … it’s walk<\/i> time, Mommy!!!”<\/p>\n
And that’s just for starters …<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
With ice pack in hand and ibuprofin starting to do its work, I head across town to the auto shop where my distributor is supposed to be replaced. (Good thing the Xterra is an automatic and it’s the left ankle that’s screaming.)<\/p>\n
So I wait with my foot on a chair and ice on my foot while they replace the distributor (pricy part; quick repair).<\/p>\n
Except the problem isn’t the distributor. I wait another hour while they try to figure out the real reason the “service engine” light has been on for a year and the engine is now starting to idle roughly. No luck. Maybe bad wiring. Maybe the computer.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
I get a ride home and figure that since I’m useless today I might as well upgrade my laptop from Mint 15 to Mint 17.1.<\/p>\n
The install breaks the computer. It won’t even boot. “Grub rescue,” the machine helpfully informs me, adding a >. Clearly the machine expects me to put in some command that of course every computer person simply must know.<\/p>\n
And it won’t even allow me to attempt a re-install. Grub rescue > Grub rescue > Grub rescue >.<\/p>\n
I know Grub is the bootloader. That’s the full extent of my knowledge — and by golly, I can’t even look up more info on the computer.* ‘Cause, you know … Grub rescue > Grub rescue > Grub rescue >.<\/p>\n
Eventually I re-install Mint 15, and from there I’m “allowed” to try Mint 17.1 again. Which works. Glory be!<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, the ever-attention-seeking Princess Ava Prettypaws is like, “Oh, Mommy, walk me, walk me. Play with me, play with me. Can I jump up and down on your hurt foot, Mom? Oh, are you getting up from that chair? Surely it means you’re going to give me loves, pats, cookies, tennis balls? And did I mention I really, really, really need a walk, Mommy?” She is unsympathetic to the fact that I can barely make it to the kitchen for a new cold-pack.<\/p>\n
Robbie, bless him, looks puzzled. But only during the increasingly rare moments that dear old boy is actually awake.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
By now the auto shop has had the Xterra six hours. But when I call, they still don’t know what’s wrong.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
Later, the mechanic calls. Found some iffy wiring. Fixed it. But sorry, that’s not the problem either. One more guess: computer’s going out. Over $1,000 to fix and hey, we’re not even sure that’ll take care of things!<\/p>\n
By now I’m not only frustrated but steamed. This is the best shop in town, not my usual shade-tree mechanic. When I asked them to diagnose the problem, the shade-tree guy had already told me the diagnostic code indicated a distributor problem. I didn’t believe it; I replaced the distributor 40,000 miles ago. <\/p>\n
“Do your diagnostics go beyond<\/i> just reading codes?” I asked the shop foreman when I brought the car in for diagnostics last week. “Can you really pinpoint the problem and not just say, ‘Oh Code XYZ; it’s the distributor?” “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”<\/p>\n
So when they<\/i> said distributor, I believed it. But I learn during all this that they diagnosed a distributor problem solely “because the computer code said …” Now, clearly they have no clue even after a full day of poking around in the engine.<\/p>\n
Which I understand in a way. Being a mechanic is tough. But I’m picturing hundreds of dollars for this result-free day at the shop and I’m not in a forgiving mood. I don’t have any choice but to drive the car home and try to figure something out on my own. A thousand dollar repair for a 15-year-old vehicle just ain’t happening. Especially one based on guesswork.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
When I get a ride back to the shop, though, they have a bill ready … for one hour. A single hour. Because they couldn’t solve the problem. I’m moved and impressed and now I feel worse for them than for me.<\/p>\n
I drive home, get the dogs, and take Ava to Furrydoc to board for a few days. Furrydoc comes right out to the car so I don’t have to walk and she tells me she has an oversized kennel and tennis balls ready to keep Ava busy while I’m hobbling. The car is really starting to run rough now, but I get home with no problems and Robbie and I watch a bad John Carpenter film. Which helps.<\/p>\n
So it was a crazy, crappy day. But all’s well that ends well. Now, all I need to do is find a computer (aka ECM or engine control module) I can afford or figure out what else might be wrong. (Oxygen sensor seems another possibility, but what do I know?) Fortunately there are lots of options online, from remanufactured parts to send us your own part and we’ll fix it to junkyard specials.<\/p>\n
And now I even have a shiny, updated computer with a functional operating system to help me search.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
*Lie. I have an older computer as a backup. It was just too painful to get up and get it.<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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