By Esther C. Baird. First published in the Ipswich Local News, January 5, 2023
Well, here we are again, staring down another New Year with all our hopes and dreams for world peace, no global pandemics, a calm election cycle, or — look, I’d settle for just a nap.
I’d also settle for a car with reasonable service needs. Regular readers will recall I boldly declared myself always and forever a minivan mom after a tedious experiment with a Volvo.
My return to the land of plentiful cup holders, plugs, and places to put ‘stuff that moms cart about’ was widely celebrated (by me). The White Whoosh has been loyal.
It’s my second home. Long before the darling millennials coined the term, I was already living the #vanlife dream.
And what a dream it is.
But — and I don’t think this is the Whoosh’s fault — the whole oil change thing is enough to turn my dream into, if not a nightmare, at least (as mentioned above) the need for a nap.
The Whoosh — and I guess most cars — need their oil changed every 5,000 miles or six months, whichever comes first.
“You can’t be serious.” I said to my service guy when he told me when to come in for my next oil change. “I mean, what’s today — Monday So, I’ll see you next Tuesday. Five thousand miles, and I’m only just starting. That six-month thing is off by, say, five months.”
He stared at me. This was the same guy who, earlier this summer, actually wrote down on my service request, “Customer says car makes loud noises going over ‘only big mountains’ so we won’t hear it, and to just trust her.”
Look, it was true. Hurtling down Route 1 by the fairgrounds is not exactly what I’d call a mountaintop experience (and I mean that both literally and metaphorically).
My mountain noises, experienced in the Adirondacks in upstate New York, were due to my tires not being aligned or rotated or whatever it is that four tires need to do to turn in unison.
To me, spinning feels like the only goal in a tire’s life. So, hey, what if the car people made tires that roll at the same time and don’t need to do the hokey pokey and turn themselves around every 5,000 miles?
Of course, no one asked me. They rarely do.
But back to the riveting conversation about oil. The service guy had an idea. “We can use this synthetic oil that will get you 10,000 miles or even more. It’s more expensive, but … you do seem to drive a lot.”
I shrugged. “Compared to what? A long-distance truck driver? I mean, sure, I drive out of state a few times a week and across New England most of the summer and, you know, out to Chicago sometimes, Or Philly.
But mostly, this is just Boxford to Woburn to Bev Farms to Ipswich to Middleton to Saugus to West Peabody to Hamilton and back again.
Don’t they make minivans mostly for moms? You’ve nailed the cupholder and plugs. Why stop there? Go for the gold and get this whole oil-and-tire thing under control, and you will win the hearts and minds of moms forever.”
I should run for president.
“So, did you want to sign up for the synthetic oil that will last longer?” he asked with a tone that suggested organizing my election campaign was not on his radar.
“Sure. That will get me maybe to next Friday.”
So they gave me the 10,000-mile oil — but a 5,000-mile reminder sticker on my windshield, because nothing is easy or ever makes sense.
I confirmed this. “This sticker has no actual bearing on my reality. It’s like an alternate-universe sticker for a mom who never drives anywhere.”
He nodded. I think he would have juggled the oil cans to get me out of there.
And there you have it. My sticker is wrong almost always, and I live in a constant state of warning lights telling me that the mom in the other universe should get her oil changed.
In my universe, I ignore it. But who knows? Maybe that other mom is taking a nap.