O,OH, OOHH

I was about to wow the inhabitants of the parts department at the local Acura dealership.

“Yes,” I said, standing proud and tall at the counter. “I need a fuel pump ‘O’ ring for a 2004 Acura.” I spoke confidently, the words rolling off my lips with the ease of an indigenous car person, speaking my native tongue.  I knew the reputation of dealership repair shops for taking advantage of car-challenged people in order to extract expensive repairs and I was determined to show that they couldn't mess around with me because I knew my stuff!

The guy standing next to me in the mechanic’s suit looked my way.  He must have been impressed that someone of the female persuasion could speak automotivese so fluently. The guy in the parts office pecked away at his computer but looked perplexed.

“I’m not finding a fuel pump O ring for a 2004 Acura,” he said.

“But I  called earlier and spoke to someone who told me that you had it in stock,” I said.

“Really?” He tried again. “Did you catch the name of the person you spoke to?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t, but he said that you had it in stock.”

I started to feel exasperated, like maybe they were trying to pull some kind of bait and switch. Before long, three men were huddled in the office discussing my case. “Did you speak to someone earlier about a fuel pump O ring?” the man at the computer asked his co-workers.  “I talked to somebody,” one man confessed warily, as if this acknowledgment might lead to an accusation, “but I thought it was an O ring for a power steering pump.”

At that moment, I realized my error.  I had confused a fuel pump  –  the most commonly known pump in my  automotive lexicon – with the pump that was actually of concern to me, which was a power steering pump, resulting in an epic failure of my goal to impress the Acura parts department, despite my exhaustive web research.

“OOOhhhh, yeah,” I said, “THAT’s what it was! It was an O ring for a power steering pump!”

The three men smiled at each other knowingly, seemingly satisfied that they had solved the puzzle and collectively amused by the ditzy blonde who had momentarily caused them to question their expertise by confidently requesting a completely nonexistent automotive part.

 Chastened, I walked away with the power steering O ring, which appeared to be a flimsy rubber ring, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter and no thicker than a string.  It cost $1.53.

I had done my web research and my goal was to get the part from the dealership and then take it someplace where they wouldn't charge an outrageous sum to install it.

On a side note, in the fllm Office Space, which I've probably watched 20 times, one of the minor characters recounts that, if his date with an officemate that night goes well, he’s pretty sure he’ll be wearing his “O” face.  “You know what I mean,” he says mischievously. Then, with comical braggadocio, he scrunches his face up in a simulation of sexual release. “O, oh, oohh!”

I have to confess that I thought about that uncouth but funny scene at least 50 times during the “O” ring episode and now I’m thinking about it again because, there I was, traipsing around various auto repair shops, talking to complete strangers about O- ring-this and O-ring-that, and “o, o, oohh!”

Anyway, returning to the saga, I took the “O” ring to my local gas station, which was under new ownership and explained my case.  “I’m 90 percent sure that my problem is that I need a new O ring,” I explained.  “I looked up my symptoms on the Internet and some other people have had the exact same symptoms.  When I first start the car, there’s a whining noise, especially when turning.  The colder the day, the worse it is. Then, about five minutes after the car warms up, the noise stops and it seems fine.  Other people have described the same symptoms on the Internet and they say that the problem is a worn power steering ‘O’ ring.  Here’s an ‘O’ ring that I bought from the dealership. How much will you charge to install it?”

The guy shook his head. “It could be many things,” he said in a Japanese accent that added credibility to his presumed knowledge of Japanese cars.  He looked at me kindly but with a sort of pity.   I was the deluded neophyte, extracting a rash diagnosis from the Internet.  He was the wise, world-weary, gray-haired car sensei.  “Oh no, (grasshopper),” he said, “Do you want me to show you?”  I responded that I did and he opened the hood.  Brown power steering fluid  spilled over what I later discovered is the power steering reservoir.  The mechanic shook his head.  It was a perplexing diagnosis that would require hoisting the car up on the rack and peeling off the Acura’s protective, plastic epidermis to peer into its exoskeleton.  Power steering fluid obviously had leaked numerous places, but the car sensei didn’t settle for easy answers. He wanted to perceive the philosophical underpinnings of it all and enlighten his pupil that there could be many ways and many paths. He traced the cause back to the power steering reservoir.  “Very unusual,” he said, shaking his head. “I think there is a crack in the power steering reservoir.  You need a new one.”

I needed a paradigm shift away from my old O ring thinking into a new mindset, which would seek the path of reservoir healing. I went to the auto parts store in search of a power steering reservoir but they didn't have one, and when the man at the counter heard my explanation, he was suspicious, as if I had fallen under the spell of some manipulative Rasputin-type character.  “I never heard of anything like that,” he said.  “If I was you, I’d take your car across the street to the Acura dealership and get a second opinion.”

At the time, however, I felt stuck.  I had left parts of the car’s plastic epidermis back at the gas station, so I had to go back.  I felt like the die was cast, so I bought a new power steering reservoir at the dealership and had the car sensei install the replacement part at what seemed like the reasonable price of $40, which included draining and replacing the power steering fluid, plus the $40 or so I had spent on the part. “It might still make noise for a few days until the air gets completely out of the pump,” he said, “so if that happens, don’t worry.”  But happen it did.  I tried the path of peaceful contemplation and tried shifting my mind into a state of automotive harmony, but the noise was far worse than it had been previously. I tried to not panic, but each day, instead of getting better,  the noise got progressively worse until it was almost a screech and instead of taking five minutes to go away, it would persist for about half an hour or more.

 The car sensei had lost credibility with me.  It was time to turn my back on the mystical, Eastern approach to car repair and return to good, old-fashioned Western-style capitalism, no matter how expensive.   I brought the car to the dealership and received a devastating diagnosis.  “You need a new power steering pump and rack,” the dealership said. Even with using a used power steering rack, the total cost will be $1,800.

I was dumbfounded.

“Did you check the O ring?” I asked. “Really, my symptoms were exactly like those described on the Internet.”

 “It’s too late for anything like that,” the young dealership mechanic said confidently.  “You have power steering fluid leaking all over the place, even in the boots, so that means you’ll have to replace the whole thing'

"But I haven't budgeted for that expensive of a repair so I don't have the money right now."

"You could drive it for as long as you can and keep checking and refilling the power steering fluid.  But don’t let it go dry or you’ll ruin the whole system.”

“So you’re sure it’s not the O ring?”

“That year’s Acura model had a recall for the power steering hose, and it looks like the previous owner brought it in for the recall,” he said.  “When performing that replacement, we always replace the O ring, so it can’t be that.”

“But I've got the previous owner’s records and he didn’t bring it here, he brought it somewhere else.  And it doesn't say anything in the records about replacing the O ring during the power steering hose recall.”

“But we always do it with the recall.”

“So why doesn’t it say it was done?  Look, I don’t have $1,800 right now to spend on the car and the irony is that I recently bought this car because my old one had developed power steering problems and I didn’t think it was worth sinking money into that large of a repair, so we bought a used Acura with a good reputation for reliability.  And now it has power steering problems.   You’re going to charge me $120 anyway just for looking at the car, so if I pay you $120 will you at least replace the O ring just to appease me?  The part only costs $1.50 retail.”

He agreed.

Later, when I came to pick up the car, I brought in my husband for added clout. In his nice, polite but firm way my husband questioned the diagnosis, but the mechanic stuck to his story. “I replaced the O ring, but I took it for a test drive and now it’s making noise all the time,” he said, “I couldn’t get it to stop.”  (The subtext?  Nice try, ditzy blonde, but sorry, you were wrong.)

“So how did the O ring look when you took it out?” I asked.

For the first time, I detected a flash of uncertainty on his face. “It looked like it might be corroded, but it was hard to tell because it was covered with power steering fluid.”

The mechanic complied with our request for an explanation of the severity of the problem, complete with narration and the visual aid of a diagram of the car’s power steering system.  He seemed knowledgeable and sincere, which is why I’m not naming the dealership because I want to give him the benefit of the doubt.   When I got into the car I could barely detect any noise, even when turning.  By the next day, it was driving beautifully.  I waited for the weather to get really cold and for the problem to reappear but the car still sounds and drives with smooth, relatively quiet pleasure – all because of a tiny ‘O’ ring that had cost me quite a bit of time and most likely a useless $80 power steering reservoir repair, but really only cost $1.50, versus a $1,800 total repair, which would have inserted a used power steering rack that probably wouldn't even be as good as my original power steering rack.

Maybe it was graciousness, or maybe it was because they knew they were busted, but the dealership ended up not charging me anything additional.  Hopefully, now I've schooled a young mechanic in O rings (as salacious as it sounds) and, despite giving the parts department a good laugh, I’'e gained some credibility.

It turns out that, even though the ditzy blonde had her terminology wrong, she was right all along. O, oh, oohh, whaddaya’ know?

The Puerto Rican Magical Mystery Vacation

Vince briefly at the wheel under the tutelage of Captain Bill, aboard a 38-foot sailboat from Sail Caribe.

Prior to leaving on a vacation to Puerto Rico, I experienced a mix of excitement and trepidation, as I expect most 50-ish women nervously view any vacation that involves donning a bathing suit in merciless sunlight.  But even beyond that, it was the first time Vince and I had gone on vacation with another couple, and our friends Bill and Shari wanted to spend days at sea on a sailboat exploring undeveloped islands. My idea of a vacation usually involves mostly indoor activities. I like stylish restaurants, clean bathrooms, sun protection, maybe a 104-degree hot tub, and easy access to medical facilities in the event of an emergency.  Exploring undeveloped islands on a sail boat didn’t meet my usual vacation criteria.  In fact, to me, it seemed a little crazy. But we developed an escape plan that involved taking a ferry back to the main island in the event of seasickness or any other regrets so I decided to give it a try.  So, off to PR and sailing!

Even waiting to board the plane was an exercise in humility and a reminder of my limitations. I fly economy class and never opt for upgrades. AirTran isn’t as bad as other airlines, but on many airlines, especially United, there’s an optional upgrade fee for everything, with a boarding process that makes India’s historically entrenched caste system look like amateurish playground cliques. United has boarding categories like Premier, Premier Plus, Presidential Premier Plus, Gold Presidential Premier Plus, Gold Presidential Premier Elite We’ll-Kiss-Your- Fanny-as-You-Board-the-Plane Ultra Plus  …  then women with children, those in wheel chairs and those with special needs …  Paper, Plastic and – my usual category –  scum of the earth who bought your seats on CheapAir.com (no kidding), whom we will shove into random, open seats to stuff the plane, just like those hapless souls in the cargo bay of the Titanic.  What?  There’s an emergency? I’m sorry, but you forgot to pay for the optional emergency oxygen mask upgrade, so prepare to die suckas!

I made the Walk of Shame to the back of the plane, took my seat and realized that my watch had stopped working.  Out of habit, I kept looking at my wrist, but the watch’s face just blinked back at me, flashing apparently random times that mocked me, as if to say,  “What time is it?  What does it matter, bimbo?  Leave me alone, it’s time for vacation!”

I often felt discombobulated until I decided to just let it go and rely only on the sun, moon, and stars as my time guides.  In the end, it was the best vacation evah!

Here are some highlights:

It turns out that, unless you’re the captain or co-captain (who sometimes have to do actual work) the main activity on a sail boat is relaxing, feeling the wind on your face, and gliding over the ocean blue.  Pretty blissful.  Then, you moor off-shore for the night and relax some more, maybe grill some steaks or dive off the boat for an evening ocean dip, enjoy the sunset, view a dazzling nighttime display of stars, and then go to sleep in the berth, letting the waves rock you to sleep. That is, unless you decide to dress up to go out for dinner on the  island of Culebra, climb into a dinghy (a kind of rubber raft) after dark and travel significant distances into unfamiliar territory where you suddenly realize that your dinghy has run smack into a coral reef.

 Shari, perched on the front of the raft served as look out, pointing her miners-style head lamp at the ocean. “Up now,” she’d holler authoritatively, and Bill would yank up the motor so that the dinghy could glide, propelled by momentum, over the coral reef.  They were a great team and, somehow, we managed to get near the shore without the dinghy doing damage or getting ripped or entangled in the reefs' sharp edges.

At one point, a flying fish jumped out of the ocean just in front of our faces and almost landed in the dinghy, which, if the fish had succeeded, probably would have freaked me out to the point where my wildly flailing arms and legs would either capsize the dinghy or I’d just fall out.

This was definitely not something I would do ordinarily.  In fact, it was something that I could only imagine a Navy SEAL doing –  “Your mission is to go by dinghy under cover of darkness and surreptitiously penetrate Culebra’s perimeter. The future of your country depends upon it!”

Our mission was more like some mahi-mahi and a refreshing drink.  We succeeded in making it to the perimeter but there was no dinghy dock in sight.

We shouted out to a security guard near the shore. “Can you direct us to the dinghy dock?”  He claimed that it was right around a nearby pier, but we rounded  the corner only to find a locked fence and swarms of long slithery tarpon fish with eyes that glowed demonically, reflecting back the light of our miner’s lamp. We proceeded down dark canals until we came to a foul-smelling residential area and then past that to a bright, festively lit restaurant deck with tables.

“Can you tell us where to find the dinghy dock?” we asked the waiter at Mamacita’s.  “You’re looking at it,” he replied cheerily.  There were some poles where we could attach a rope, but no ladder.  A couple eating on the deck watched in freaked-out amazement as they saw four people rise up out of the ocean and clamber onto the deck, two of them flopping onto the floor in dresses, and one of them with a miner’s light on her head and carrying a large, white plastic bag of garbage from the sailboat.  “Can you take our garbage?” we asked, somewhat sheepishly.  A look flashed on the waiter’s face like he wanted to throw us and our garbage back in the water, but he quickly suppressed the urge and ended up taking our garbage.

Suddenly, Vince disappeared.  He eventually re-emerged as we got our seats and, as it turned out, he had been busy scoping out possible sleeping accommodations for the night because there was no way he wanted to get back in the dingy, ostensibly because “the women” wouldn’t want to.   Ah-hem.  “I’m up for it,” I chirped.

I mean, we had already survived flying fish and traversing reefs that could rip our dinghy into shreds.  What else could there be?

Of course, if we ended up capsizing or sinking in a dark ocean at night, Vince would be vindicated (and it turns out that we came pretty close to that) but we finally made it back safely, at least until a storm the following night.  And then two earthquakes the next night, but that’s another story.

Overall, it was a thrilling vacation that involved snorkeling, sailing, exploring secluded beaches, kayaking in narrow, Mangrove-lined canals at night and plunging into the mysterious waters of a remote bioluminescent bay.

On the plane ride back I glanced at my worthless watch again.  Surprisingly, the time seemed accurate.  I had to check a few times before I was sure, but it had started working again as if on cue.  PR had been a timeless interlude, a magical mystery vacation, where I broke free of my usual time consciousness and play-it-safe mentality and, instead, morphed into Jeanne Warrior Princess, daredevil, adventuress extraordinaire, and fearless dinghy dock garbage deliverer.  Thanks Shari and Bill and everyone else who was a part of it.  You know who you are.

A Puerto Rican sunset as seen from the boat.

Gilling aboard the boat.

A beach on one of the islands.

A cute photo of our fearless leaders, Bill and Shari, on land in Ponce.

No one needs to teach us how to relax.  We are pros.