Do you feel anxious when you bring your car into the dealership for a minor service? Do you wonder what else they might find lurking under the hood? Do you hide your valuables in the trunk so as not to tempt the technician? Do you vacuum the inside before you enter the service bay to show that you treat your vehicle with proper respect?
We've owned 40 some cars in 40 some years of marriage. Some people travel, some buy art, some buy cars. TBG is firmly in the latter category, and I've been the benficiary of his love through Porsches and Ferraris and Lotuses and BMW's and more parts of the Honda inventory than most people can name. Some I've bought myself, some I've been surprised to open the garage door and find a new car sitting where something else lived when I left.
In each instance, I was introduced to the Service Department; he worked, I did household chores, but he wanted to be certain that I was treated with respect. “This is the person who will be bringing the car in for service,” TBG intoned with a serious mein. “I expect that she will be treated like a queen.”
They smiled, but he meant it. Apparently, when you are a repeat customer in an upscale dealership the salesmen have sway over the service department. They knew who I was when I drove in for an appointment; I was greeted by name. I was met with coffee or water. There was fruit on the receptionist's desk and the waiting room had desks and comfy chairs and a television or two if I decided to hang out and while the work was done. If not, I always had a loaner car waiting.
I'm replaying those scenes this morning, as I sit in an AutoNation Customer Lounge, waiting for The Uvula to have her first oil change. I paid a massive fee upfront so that I never have to pay for service; at least, that's the way I remember the discussion. The gentleman who checked me in crossed out the $34.71 total on the invoice, so I have that part right.
Of course, there was a small glitch in the process. I remember my saleswoman telling me that the Service Department would touch up little scratches whenever I drove into the Express Service lane. That lane also provides free fluid top offs and air pressure checks. It was another little piece of wonderfulness the dealership was offering me and I was thrilled.
Apparently, my memory and the information the service guy has are at odds. He offered to order an $8 bottle of touch up paint for me to do the work myself. Since I am not handy, I'm reluctant to apply color to my car door, even though the little white marks should be easy to cover, acccording to AutoNation's minion. She's not in until 1; I'll have to make another trip.
And so, while Little Cuter is interviewing for a new job, while FlapJilly is hanging with Auntie Mel, while Big Cuter is at spin class and Amster is in San Diego, I am sitting, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for The Uv to emerge from the garage.
I hope she's having more fun than I am.