I had an appointment to have my Element serviced today. When I called the dealership to book the service, because the little light in the dashboard told me to, the person on the other end of the phone assured me a “B1” level service would take about an hour, maybe 90 minutes tops.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the dude at the service counter told me when I arrived at 9:48 for my 9:50 appointment that he hoped to have my SUV ready for me by 4:00. Because I really wanted to be without a vehicle for 6.5 hours today. I explained that I was told over the phone the appointment would take about an hour, and he countered that the shop was extremely busy and my truck would be several hours at the very least, but I was welcome to take the free shuttle back across the city so I could wait at home for the work to be completed.
I put my name on the shuttle list, which I was told would be by to pick me up in about 2o minutes, and sat down in the customer “lounge” to wait for my ride home. For the first half hour, I played Angry Birds on my phone until the battery was very angry with me; then I read the latest Giller Prize winner on my Kobo. Finally, 45 minutes into my 20 minute wait, I went to the counter to check on the status of the shuttle. Apparently only one shuttle driver was working today, so the system was rather backed up, but I was assured the shuttle should be by to pick me up in about 15 minutes.
Half an hour later, the shuttle driver arrived and started calling names off a clipboard. Mine was not among them because he had four seats and I was fifth on the list. Luckily for me, the estimated wait for my ride was only an hour at that point.
Back I went to the customer “lounge,” where I read my e-book while the sports network played on a television with a screen larger than my bed. HD is overrated indeed, particularly when far larger than life boxers are spitting into buckets.
The worst part of all this, even considering the lack of Diet Pepsi in the vending machine and my caffeine withdrawal headache, was the radio station playing in the customer “lounge.” Check your calendar: today is December 28th. Christmas has come and gone and it is time to stop playing festive music. I truly hate Christmas music at any point of the year, but it is insufferable after the presents are open and the turkey is soup.
Among the top choices from today’s festive music playlist:
“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”: Ah, not true. Santa Claus isn’t coming to town for another 362 days, people. He doesn’t even see me when I’m sleeping or awake right now; he’s too busy sleeping off the blood sugar coma from downing all those cookies.
“Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”: Two things: there is a zero tolerance policy for bullying in our schools and the other reindeer are allowed to call poor Rudy names and exclude him from their cloven-hooved tomfoolery? This song sets a poor example for today’s youth. Two: how many years has this song existed? The original Rudolph is long since dead, like the original Shamu, and continuing to sing about the poor guy (may he rest in peace) seems off in many ways.
“Deck the Halls”: Actually, it’s time to undeck your halls, folks. Don’t be that house that still has a decorated tree in the front window for Valentine’s Day. Fa la la la losing my mind. Ick.
“Frosty the Snowman”: This isn’t technically a Christmas song, but it should be illegal. It teaches kids to follow a stranger through town lured by his peppy personality and snazzy “magic” top hat.
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”: Yup. Done and done. This is like sending a get well card after the surgical incision has healed. Some things simply don’t work in the past tense.
“Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”: How does this even make sense? A rogue reindeer ran down Grandma on Christmas Eve? Was Prancer on the lam? Santa has nine reindeer and they never work alone. Reindeer don’t kill people. Jolly old men who are in a rush to deliver presents in an outdated mode of transportation kill people.
That’s just a sampling of what I was tortured with for three hours today. With a headache. I never thought I’d be ready to beg for the soft rock station, but this is a season of miracles, isn’t it?
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