Exploding Subcompacts

After this past weekend, I can safely say this: when Honda civics break, they break with gusto.

I drive a hybrid Honda civic. It is a reliable car in a goofy color. I am fond of it, and it has not given me any problems in the last two years. However, when I left for work this past Sunday, I was greeted by a dead-as-a-doornail car.

This would be fine, except that all of the people I know who own cars were either a) at church (pious people got wheels, y’all), b) unlikely to own jumper cables, or c) my sleeping roommate. So, because I am an adult, I called my parents.

Because they love me, they jumped my car and–though the car seemed convinced that the parking brake was on–I got to work just fine. At work, I cleaned a bunch of tables and debated with my coworkers whether my constant exposure to Windex is responsable for the skin condition that is currently splitting my right palm open with dry skin and sadness.

I got back to my car at 4:30, relieved to escape the pretty terrible wind by hopping into my car. Which started, but promptly lost power steering and lit up the, “your battery is busted,” indicator. (On the plus side, it seemed to have figured out the parking brake thing.)

I did not cry on the parking deck, because that would have been the second time this week for that deck, and that seemed unfair to it. Instead, I called my parents. Again.

On the advice of the internet, my dad had me rev the engine while in park in order to charge the car battery. This seemed to be working, right up until my car began to shudder from side to side and–with a sad little noise–died again. Dad returned home, got his tools, came back, and took the battery out.

Seriously, have I mentioned that my parents love me?

We took the battery down to the nearest auto store, where they said that it was, in fact, dead. It was not bad, however, and they said they could charge it. So we left them with the battery and headed to my parents’ house, where my mother was cooking eggplant parmesan. I love eggplant parmesan.

After an hour of chatting and watching my mom fry eggplant, my dad and I headed back, got the battery, and in the now-considerable freezing winds stuck it back in the car. The car started back up, though it was confused about the brake again, and I headed home.

When I got home, I learned that the power had gone out, and with it the starter to my parents’ oven. There would be no eggplant parmesan.

Not my best day.

The battery lasted long enough for me to drive home and drop the car off. This morning, I managed to snag an unexpected same-day appointment with the Honda dealership that services the car, and prepared to set out. The car, of course, had died again. The dealership people were very understanding.

Two hours and several phone calls later, the car was carted off to the dealership in the bed of a tow truck. The dealership called me today to let me know that the car is broken in some way they haven’t figured out yet, and they’ll call me back tomorrow.

My parents wound up making the eggplant parmesan tonight instead. Apparently it was very good.

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One thought on “Exploding Subcompacts

  1. Pingback: Chomp and Stomp | Dances With Nerds

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