San Diego State University’s Independent Student Newspaper Since 1913

The Daily Aztec

San Diego State University’s Independent Student Newspaper Since 1913

The Daily Aztec




San Diego State University’s Independent Student Newspaper Since 1913

The Daily Aztec

Frustrated but lubricated

The location: my parents’ house.  The car: a 2002 Honda Accord.  The task: change the oil.  The problem: see location.

For anyone who’s seen the television show “Arrested Development,” you’re familiar with how the character of Buster Bluth can’t seem to accomplish even the simplest of tasks without his mother, Lucille Bluth, close by his side.  My situation with the aforementioned task of changing my oil at my parents’ house is eerily similar to that of the Bluths, although with one minor change—my father won’t leave my side.

I arrived one Saturday morning to their humble two-story abode, my trunk ripe with newly purchased petroleum and filtering products.  After negotiating my way through their home security system that would make Fort Knox look like a bed and breakfast, I presented two forms of identification to the armed guard inside the garage, and I was able to enter.  I’m kidding.  He only asked for one ID.

As luck would have it, I arrived just as my parents were on their way out to the American version of a Bangladesh traders market: Walmart.  Those slaves to the blue vest were sure to keep my parents trapped inside that discount prison for hours, leaving me enough time to give my engine a fresh transfusion of 5W-20.  Of course, the controller-of-all-things-automotive, my dad, said there was a better chance of Honey Boo Boo not ending up in rehab than me crawling under my car without appropriate supervision.  He argued it was unsafe because the car could fall off the jack and crush my internal organs, and with no one around, I’d be as dead as Judd Nelson’s career.  Ironically, the Argument of the Unsafe Oil Change was articulated to me as a Winston 100 was dangling from his bottom lip like a stranded rock climber.  Apparently, safety and health are two different arguments.

He brought up an example of when my uncle was working on his Barracuda or Hemicuda or Barrahemi or whatever he said, and how the car fell off the jack and came tumbling down to the earth like a Russian meteor hell bent on crushing my uncle’s insides.  I guess that one incident out of the millions of uneventful oil changes throughout the history of man was enough to persuade my dad to watch over me like the crew from “To Catch a Predator.”

I argued.  I bantered.  I made fun of his weather balloon midsection.  Nothing worked.  My efforts deemed fruitless, I conceded defeat.  He stayed.

Before I could even get my jeans dirty from the grime of his not-so-well-kept garage floor, he had managed to somehow wedge himself underneath my oil pan faster than you can say “helicopter parent.”  Aside from the pleasant view of his belly button, which looked like someone stuck their index finger into a mountain of pizza dough, I was not too keen on being shoved aside like one of John Mayer’s weekend starlets.  Nevertheless, I stood by and watched as he basically performed the entire oil change himself.  Well, that’s not entirely true; I got to hold the flashlight.

Twenty minutes later, the world’s slowest pit stop was complete.  All that remained in the garage were the remnants of an oil filter box and some broken pieces of my ego.

Frustration aside, my car ended up with five fresh quarts of synthetic bliss, which I suppose was the ultimate goal.  I guess it’s nice to have a dad who wants to help his son with projects of the automotive sort.  Some kids don’t have dads at all and have to take their car to Jiffy Lube.

Oh, how I envy those kids.

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San Diego State University’s Independent Student Newspaper Since 1913
Frustrated but lubricated