I drove to Norwood this morning, and while I didn't see any bears, I swear Rt. 1 is falling off the edge of the world. (It didn't help that my journey was lengthened considerably by construction on the VFW Parkway. Of course, travel two miles in any direction in Massachusetts and you'll hit construction.) I left my baby car in the hands of Saturn of Norwood reluctantly, but I had no choice. I told them my problems, gave them my work number, and hoped for the best. Two hours later, she called. No big deal. An O2 sensor. Sweet! I didn't need to replace the engine. And then she called back. Yeah. Cam-something-gasket-something, piston filled with oil. Seriously? I knew I was leaking oil somehow. Okay, go ahead. I don't need to eat this month.
I left work a little early to try to avoid some 128 southbound traffic and was almost killed whilst traveling entirely legally in the breakdown lane. If that didn't piss me off enough, I didn't know where the damn horn was on my loaner car. So I could only curse vociferously and gesture wildly to the bastard in the mini-van who doesn't know what those shiny mirror things are for. I arrived at Saturn far from my happy place, and $407 later, my mood had not improved. I walked out to my now-fixed vehicle and climbed inside. And there they were. Saturn mints. My entire cupholder was filled with Saturn mints. These things are the Holy Grail of mints. You can't buy them in stores. Bless you, Saturn of Norwood. Bless you. Sure, I appreciate the service, and the loaner, and the vacuumed interior. But most of all, I appreciate the mints. I'll be back in 3,000 miles or the next time I'm leaking oil into my pistons. Whichever comes first.
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