The Oil Change from Hell

The day started out deceptively pleasant.  The girls  and I had been looking forward to a nice, relaxing Saturday.  The only thing on our agenda was to drop off some dry cleaning.  It was going to be a short 15-minute trip, and because I had a lot of dresses to be dry cleaned, I decided to lighten my load and leave the diaper bag at home.  At the precise moment I made that decision, the gates of Hell opened up and an ominous cloud formed over my head.  Unbeknownst to me, the course of my entire day (and perhaps my life) was about to change.

As we were driving down the road,  an alarm suddenly went off on my dashboard. I looked down and saw the "low oil" light flashing. I glanced up at the oil change sticker on my windshield and realized I was 1,000 miles over my service date.  Not wanting to burn up my engine, I decided to pull in for an oil change.  I wasn't exactly prepared to wait around for an oil change, after all I had left my diaper bag at home, but I figured "How long could an oil change take? 30 minutes? Maybe 45? The kids will be fine."

Famous last words.

When I pulled into the service station, I was greeted by a very cheerful mechanic. In hindsight, he was almost too cheerful -- suspiciously cheerful. I informed him that all I needed was a simple oil change. "Ok, that sounds easy enough," he replied kindly. Then unexpectedly, his demeanor changed, an evil smile crept across his face, and in a foreboding tone, he added, "we should have you out of here in no time. Go take a seat in our waiting room."

The cold breeze I felt when I opened the door to the customer lobby could have been the air conditioner, but more likely it was the souls of the awaiting customers escaping the four-cornered prism of purgatory they call the "waiting room." The room was packed full of irritated and neglected customers, some teetering on the edge of starvation. There were 12 hard, plastic chairs crammed into this small waiting room, 10 were occupied. The girls and I made our way to the vacant chairs and were forced to squeeze between the skeletonized remains of two other forlorn patrons.  To Brooke, the extent of our dilemma was readily apparent.  Her eyes scanned the inhospitable room in a panic, searching in vain for any source of age-appropriate entertainment. There was not one toy, one cartoon, or even one Highlights magazine. This disappointing discovery marked the beginning of Brooke's descent -- she lasted exactly 43 seconds.

As the first hour of our wait slowly ticked by, Brooke's whining progressed:

• "Mooooooooooooom, I am boooooooored."
• " I want to hoooooooome."
• "Moooooooooom, Bridget touched my arm."
• "Moooooooooom, it smells bad in here."
• "Moooooooooom, I am hungry."
• "Moooooooooom, I am thirsty."
• "Moooooooooom, we are going to be here foreverrrrrrrr." (With this last one, I was beginning to fear she was correct).

Bridget was beginning to lose it too. She was crying, hitting me, and trying to escape my hold the entire time. I tried my best to entertain them by singing songs and coming up with games like "lets count all of the tiles on the floor," but to no avail. They were not having it. When I realized they were both hungry, I searched for the vending machines. There were none! Apparently, there are no convenient snack foods in Hell. As a last resort, I searched the bottomless pit of my purse and found a paperclip, an after-dinner mint, 37 cents, and miraculously, a 100-calorie pack of shortbread cookies.  I knew that tiny pack of cookies was the key to our survival, and I prepared to ration them for what could be our infinite wait.

As hour two passed, I began to worry about Bridget's saturated diaper. She didn't appear to be uncomfortable, but I doubted the diaper would hold for too much longer. During our 52nd game of patty-cake, Bridget grew suddenly silent.  When her face crinkled up and turned crimson, I knew what was happening. The smell filled the air and a sudden warmth spread across my lap. The diaper had reached full-capacity and the evidence was all over me.

Of course I had nothing with me to take care of the situation. I HAD LEFT THE DAMN DIAPER BAG AT HOME!! I knew I would have to be creative. The girls and I ran to the bathroom. I stripped Bridget down and gave her a  quick sink bath. I had no extra diapers with me, but I did have a maxi pad and an old burp rag. I will not go into details, but let's just say, I created an impromptu diaper. I did my best to clean myself up, but at that point, I didn't really care.

I am still not sure how, but we survived another painful hour. When the evil mechanic finally came in to inform us that our truck was ready, he caught a glimpse of me and stopped dead in his tracks.  I was on the verge of tears, my hair was a mess, sweat was pouring down my back, and I smelled like poop. I could tell he was judging me. He then said something that confirmed that he was either Satan himself or just really stupid:  "If you could just take a few minutes and fill out this customer survey. Please give us high marks because it has a direct impact on my employment."  There were a million things I wanted to say (and do) in response to his ridiculous request, but I responded in the only way I could muster. I glared at him, slapped down my Visa, and growled "No." At that point, I was just thankful my nightmare was over.

When the girls and I made it back home, I put them down for a nap and I went to take a shower. As I curled up in the fetal position on the shower floor, letting the water wash away the evil of the day, I realized I would never be the same again.  I had spent a day in Hell and had narrowly escaped the grasp of Satan. But now, I was in the safety of my own home and I had another 3,000 miles between me and another oil change from Hell.