Really? I Mean, Really?

I woke up Sunday morning to a dead car battery. Nothing in this world is less fun than getting in your car, turning the key, and hearing nothing. I sat in my car silently for a few seconds, and then I began ranting to myself, the steering wheel, and the mail on the passenger seat. "Stupid car! Stupid car! YOU STUPID CAR!"

I'm usually not prone to uncontrollable rages, but we had just gone through a whole phase of our car not starting. Something with the fuel gauge in the fuel tank. The car would have half a tank of gas, but the gauge would tell the car it was empty so the car would shut itself down.I never knew when it would start. I would go out every morning with my fingers, arms, and toes crossed hoping against all hope that today it would start. Over two thousand dollars later, (it needed a little more work than just a fuel gauge) it now starts. So you can see why I was so upset by this dead battery.

My dad swung by Sunday evening and he jumped the car. But guess what. On Monday morning I went out to start the car and again, dead battery. Now we have a problem. I know I wasn't leaving my headlights on or anything like that so the battery must be going bad. I have to jump it myself. I'm not a total moron, I know how to jump a car and have assisted many a neighbor in jumping theirs (I'm always home). But the thought of doing it myself leaves me in a cold sweat. Literally. I am DEATHLY afraid of electricity. I don't know why. I've never been shocked, never been struck by lightning (unlike my little brother). But I was sure that jumping the car by myself would surely lead to injury and/or death. I read through the owner's manual just to make sure I'm doing it right. I am physically shaking as I hook up the cables to the batteries. Red on positive. Okay. Black on negative. Oh good heavens don't let me end up a smoking pile of blonde flesh on my drive way. As you can guess I managed to successfully jump the car by myself. Mission accomplished. 

I drive to Auto-Zone and stand in line ready to inform the technician of my predicament (they will test your battery for free). I should tell you now that I hate cars. I hate everything to do with them. I hate fixing them. I hate buying parts for them. I hate washing them. I hate cleaning them out. So standing in line at Auto-Zone I'm not too happy. After testing my car the technician informs me that it is in fact not my battery that is the problem, but my alternator. Lovely. I put in a call to Rick. Rick is my car-mechanic god. I love him. I would kneel down before him and worship the ground he walks on, but since he's my step-brother, I don't. As soon as he sees it's me on the caller ID he's asks 'what now' because I am always calling him with problems on my car. As I tell him what is wrong he doesn't seem to think it's my alternator. We talk on the phone for another 5-10 minutes debating what-in-the-world could be wrong with my car. While I sit there with the car off, I hear a mysterious ticking noise coming from the passenger seat and since I don't believe in ticking ghosts, I check it out. I discover that the motorized control for the power seat adjust is stuck in the down position. Are you kidding me? I just subjected myself to the torture of jumping my car myself and then going to the place where all evil resides, a car parts store, all because my leg pushed the lever down Saturday night while I got something out of the car? Rick, the car-mechanic god, is laughing and assuring me that is what has been draining my battery. I guess I should just be happy that I don't have to shell out more of my husband's hard earned defending-the-country paycheck to fix the car. I fixed it myself. By pulling the lever up. You should be impressed. I was.