How to Fix an American Car ...

Some would say that the only way to fix your American car is to buy a foreign-made car. Financially, this is not an option for me right now, so I'll stick to the "fixing" part of the conundrum, which is not yet a crisis ... this is very atypical of me, to not wait 'til my car has died in some un-ideal location ...

Step One (Last Friday): Call the dealership and have a mild heart attack when they quote the price of the part to you. You are numb by the time they quote the labor charge to you. Politely thank them and hang up the phone, before the tears spill over (Estimated damage at this point: $450)

Step Two (Last Friday night): Begin the Great Internet Search, dealing primarily with stores that have locations near you. Add the dealership's labor estimate to this cost. (Estimated damage at this point: $250-$300)

Step Three (This morning): In desperation, call the local salvage yard. BINGO! The alternator is $30. Call the mechanic who's been like a car-tinkering graddad to you since you moved to town. $80. (Estimated damage at this point: $110) Bonus: Advance Auto Parts will test the alternator to see whether it's any good or whether it should be returned to the salvage yard. At which point, I'm back to Step Two, but $20 cheaper, because the "little guy" mechanic doesn't charge what the dealership does ...

I felt good at this point, and I decided that this was a good time to tackle my bookshelf issue. I need more bookshelf space because my piles of books are starting to teeter precariously, and I don't want to die in an avalanche of paperbacks.

So I went to Bloedorn Lumber.

Hah.

I almost apologized to the sales guy for wasting his time, because he made me feel like my little $15 purchase had done just that. I didn't know what kind of wood, what size of wood, etc., etc., I wanted. I had even smiled at the guy to accompany my "dumb chick" routine. No effect. The smile -- and my lack of blue jeans and a Carhartt jacket -- apparently added to the vapidness of my presence in his store. I felt so stupid when I drove around to go pick up my stuff. The guys who loaded it were much friendlier, but my feeling of ineptness carried over to Wal-Mart when I went to go find paint for my cinder blocks and planks of wood. I avoided the paint-counter guy altogether. I just needed white paint. I found it, found a brush and a drop cloth and skedaddled out of there.

At least I won't suffocate under a pile of collapsed books.