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Wednesday, Jul. 17, 2002 - 4:54 p.m.

Car talk

NOTE: This is Part Deux of God knows how many installments in the account of my trip. To start at the beginning, go here. Sorry for the bland title, but �My girlfriend�s dad grabbed my dipstick� is just too creepy.

There�s a t-shirt ... and a hat, a bumper sticker, an air-brushed license plate, a magnet, perhaps a pair of boxers, and maybe even an ad for Viagra that says �Life begins at 50.� When you�re talking about cars, the equivalent would be �Life begins at 50,000,� and the Grand Am hit 50,000 miles early in the journey, maybe 20 minutes over the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. It came at 10:44 a.m. on Friday, July 5, as I passed mile marker 352.4 on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I was happy, because we (the car and me) made it through our two-year anniversary on June 17 with the odometer still below 50K. I don�t know if I�m ready for that 25,000-per-year average; though with all the driving I�ve done since last June 17 (see my �Northeast Odyssey� series from late last June, and consider my 60-mile-one-way commute to work since November), it�s rather remarkable. In fact, once I get the car back from the mechanic tomorrow, I�ll have to look up in my gas mileage log and see what the odometer read last June 17.

Anyway, I blew through that milestone and didn�t mention it again because I could tell Casey kept thinking, �He�s turning into Dad.� I�m not, of course, because I�m nothing of a gearhead. In fact, when my �Change Oil� light came on (not even 2,000 miles since I had it changed, leading me to believe the dealership never reset the indicator), I panicked, worried that I really did need to get it changed. So Casey and I figured we�d do that in Johnstown to have it out of the way, but as soon as she mentioned to Jim that we were considering it, he shifted into gear.

�Did you check it?� he asked. I hadn�t, though I was planning on doing it. But my reply, �Not yet --� (I was cut off by, �Let�s go take a look.�) was all he needed. �I figure they just forgot to reset the light at the dealership,� I said to his retreating back. Immediately, I regretted saying it, giving away the fact that I let the dealership handle something as simple as an oil change. I know Jim likes me and he�s comfortable with me, but I�m always wondering if he�s thinking, �If he can�t check his own oil [insert other various tasks here], how�s he going to take care of Casey.� But now I�m beginning to sound like some kid in a 50s sitcom sitting in the living room trying to impress the girl�s father and promising to have her home by 11. In reality, after I�d instintively put my suitcase in Tessa�s room, Jim had pulled Casey aside and said, �You know, you and Dan can stay in the same room. You�re 24. Besides, I can�t be a hypocrite -- I lived with Carol for 15 years before we were married.�

Back to the oil: We went out into the driveway and I popped the hood (at least I know how to do that quickly and efficiently, giving off the impression that I do it regularly for checkups, maintenance, and general gazing in affection at my V6). Before I�d even propped the hood open with the stand, Jim had the dipstick wiped off and back in place to check the oil level.

�It�s past �Full,�� he said, �and it looks clean.� Then he stood over me and watched as I struggled to pry off the cover to the fuse box and read the owner�s manual to learn how to reset the �Change Oil� indicator on the dash.

Because of the time, Casey and I put off a quick trip to Idlewild and Mr. Rogers� Neighborhood in order to make it to Primanti Bros. for sammiches before the Pirates game. Jim, jumping at the opportunity to spend more time with us, had taken the liberty of getting four tickets when Casey told him we were considering going to the game, and he was driving.

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