Flash! Auuuuuuahhhhhhhh!

It's dark and cold in the mornings now, so I could no longer ignore the fact that my car's headlights continue to flash to the rhythm of "Turn the Beat Around" nor the fact that if I try to run the heat, lights, and radio at the same time I run a good chance of stalling out. Driving around with a broken speedometer - I've gotten used to - but the embarrassment of my pulsating lights reflecting off the back of the incredulous driver in front of me - not so much. Besides, I'm going to need that heater, bigtime!

So, we took the car into the only place in Missoula that specializes in electrical problems. Two old, friendly guys were there and I tried, in as much detail as possible, to explain the problem with the car. Crazy, dance-around-the-dial speedometer, flashing lights, radio skipping every other syllable with a nice staticky CCRRKKKK! And how in the mornings when I reach a stoplight, I have to put the car in neutral and gun it, to give it enough juice to once again allow the radio and lights to be steady. At this point, the mechanics gave each other a dumbfounded look - a look that gave me the heebee jeebees considering that it means "ka-ching! ka-ching!" When they mentioned that if they couldn't figure it out, it was off to the dealership with me, I openly sobbed.

Okay, I didn't, but STILL.

I hate talking to men who are mechanics or computer experts or talented athletes. They always act like I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about (don't on cars, DO on computers, used to in volleyball and basketball) and are patiently listening to a 4-year old child talk about her dolly. Luckily Beau was there to add legitimacy to my claim by the presence of his overwhelming testosterone. There was one awkward moment though when he asked a question, trying to show his (past) knowledge of cars, therefore excluding us from the "idiots fee." The mechanic shot him a look and said, "They haven't been doing that to cars since 1963." "Oh," was all Beau could say.

The next day they called to say they knew what it was (the alternator and a fuse) and I could come get the car. Joy! "Are you sitting down?" he asked. Oh fuck. "How much?" I asked meekly.

$365.

Okay, that's a HUGE amount of money to use right now, but in the universe that is car repair, it's not a HUGE amount of money. I guess. I was frightened he'd say something like "2,000!" - about what we paid for the car, which would make the whole situation ridiculous. So, just before five we picked it up, and as I drove off, I was in a state of continual glee as I saw my speedometer assuredly and steadily rise up to 40mph instead of thrashing around like a mosh pit maniac. The car didn't stall. I put on the heat, lights, and radio. All was well. Hooray!

Not so fast! This is my world, remember? That night I drove the car to do some errands, like picking up a giant piece of wood at Lowe's to go under my Dance Dance Revolution mat so I could stomp the shit out of it. As darkness fell and I started off for home, it all began again. The flashing, the static, the threats of stalling. By the time I reached home, it was worse than it ever was before. I put the car in neutral in our parking space, and called up to Beau to come out of the apartment. Meeting him on the stairs, he peered down at the car and said, "Why do you have your turn blinker on?"

"I don't," I said, "That's the headlights."

"Oh, shit."

The next morning after Beau left for work, I decided I'd go to the store to pick up some things. The car would not start. Period. After a brief whine, it wouldn't even turn over at all. Just great!

When Beau got home from work, we jumped it, and took off to the car place again. This was Sunday, so all we could do was leave our keys in the drop box and flip off the empty building as we left. Beau said, "I bet it's the alternator, when I had trouble with mine, they had to replace it like three times before they got one to work." We waited for a call the next day.

"It's not the alternator," said the mechanic, who then launched into his "plan," which sounded totally kooky to me. "We put a circuit breaker on it. What you got to do, is drive the car -- and it will blow, but then the circuit breaker will immediately turn it back on. This will happen on occasion, but when it gets to the point where it is happening repeatedly, you bring it back in and we'll be able to diagnose the problem."

"Wait, you mean I have to run the car into the ground?"

"No, not really, this is not a big deal. And besides, it may take a week for this to happen, it may take a year. It's a waiting game." Mmmmmkay. "And then when I bring it back...THEN what happens?" I asked. Translation: How much? No dummy, he picked up on that immediately and said, "No, don't worry. I do right by my customers. It will be fair."

*sigh* As a last thought, I asked him to put new windshield wipers on the car too. All they do now is smear the water across the windshield. "We don't usually do that, but I'll be happy to do it for you," he said.

He called back later that day.

"It's the alternator," he said. Vindicated Beau, bummed out me.

Then the mechanic started apologizing profusely on the phone and said, "Is it all right - the alternator has to come from Denver - you won't get your car until Thursday." A bit stunned - this is Missoula, not the Arctic tundra or Mad Max, but really, what CAN you do? Before he hung up, he added, "But you got some fantastic wipers on your car! They work great!"

Small blessings.

And now we wait, til Thursday (tomorrow) and hope this is the end of the story. I hope we don't get charged anymore cash (except for the blades), but we'll see. Labor is time and time is money. I love that little Honda, but it's become a real pain in the caboose.