Trapped with the TV.

Why oh why did I do it?

Why oh why did I take my car back to the dealer for an inspection and an oil change?

What am I, stupid?

Yup; next question?

There was a slight key issue that turned out to be a nonissue; the other reason was the coupon. The dealer has sent me coupons for oil changes, tire rotations, A/C check, and so on, but I never use them. I'd gone to the dealer for routine maintenance and it always took forever. So I usually go to the guy down the block. But this time, I don't know, I just thought they might have gotten better in the last three or four years.

WRONG.

Two hours for an inspection and oil change. They threw in an exterior car wash, but I would have happily told them not to bother if I had known they were going to do it. It might have saved me what, an hour and a half?

Yeah, sure.

Not that they don't try to make it comfortable for you. There is a lounge with magazines you'd never read, the newspaper one of the employees straight-up stole three minutes after I went in, and vending machines with no prices posted (but they'll take your credit card, so it's okay). The best of all was the TV that was on to one channel and could not be changed or shut off.

Now, if you work for a living, or otherwise avoid daytime television, you may not be aware that everything that is wrong with the United States of America can be determined by spending a couple of hours watching daytime television. I don't think it was as bad when I was a kid, as there were few talk shows and lots of game shows, and Mom never watched the soaps. What I saw on the idiot box while pining for my car told me that the acting on soaps was worse than ever, and that daytime talk shows are written and performed for morons.

I'm not sure what irritated me most about the talk show. Was it the celebrity suckup that was so powerful that James Dyson would have been envious? The heroic celebration of people whose accomplishments are minimal, self-centered, or stupid? Or the slavish pandering to the addle-pated crowd? ("That's what I think, amiright?" "YAAAY!") And there am I---because you can't leave, your car could be ready at any moment---looking toward the garage through the window like a sad Pierrot.

View from the window, my sad little clown face staring out.

Was Meredith Vieira ever really considered a legitimate journalist?

If the entire staff of the dealership hadn't been zombie-assing around like DMV employees on Ambien, I might had some sense that an effort was being made to get me on my way. If the idiot who figured out the bill had been able to figure out how to apply the coupon that the dealership sent me, I might not have told them they would never see my face again. (I told him to skip the coupon because I had to get back to work, which was true. At least one of us was willing to do some work that day.)

Maybe if the dealership spent more time getting non-dingdongs to work there and less time making signs telling everyone how great their service is, things would run better there. As it is, never again.