Oh, dear. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom should go back to driving a horse and buggy! But with her luck, Farmer H would forget to feed the horse, and let termites eat the buggy.
This morning Farmer H commandeered The Pony to be his getaway driver after dropping T-Hoe off at the local car dealer's service department. Farmer H had a list of what Mrs. HM wants fixed. He received a call mid-afternoon about the costs, and agreed to the previous agreement of fixin's. EXCEPT he said we're not spending a couple of thousand dollars on the suspension. Which is fine with Mrs. HM, because that was NOT on her list anyway, only on the computer-chip T-Hoe list of stuff that flashes a warning light that it needs repairs. Unlike Farmer H's theory that, "If it's broke, don't fix it," Mrs. HM believes that items which lessen her car-driving comfort and security are the items that need to be fixed. She has not noticed a problem with the suspension, so carry on, my wayward T-Hoe, or we'll be fleeced when you are done!
Yes, I think after going 2 years without my automatic tire pressure sensors, and my backup beeper, and now without opening up the back hatch...it's time to get them fixed. I want my bells and whistles back. It's not like I'm driving a 2002 Chevy Trailblazer. Or a Flintstone log, through the courtesy of my two feet.
But here's what's stuck in my craw today. My email popped up the monthly OnStar diagnostic report on my new Acadia. All systems were go except the tire pressure. Uh huh. That's what happens when the tire pressure sensors actually work. OnStar (and of course the goverment, which uses it to track my every move!) sensed that my sensors read the tire pressures as 31, 30, 31, 31 psi. That's clockwise, from the driver's tire, because I can't draw that cute little diagram showing the car and my wheels.
So...I have The Pony holler up to Farmer H that before we leave on our trip tomorrow, he needs to inflate those tires to 35 psi. It's not like that's a hardship for Farmer H. He doesn't have to take A-Cad to town. He doesn't have to use a foot pump or a bicycle pump or put his lips to the valves and blow in his considerable hot air. He has a compressor over at the BARn. In fact, he has a tank of air in the garage. Mere feet away from A-Cad. But do you know what he did, that mechanically-inclined spouse of mine?
He said, by way of hollering down the steps to The Pony, who relayed it to me, "They'll inflate when we drive tomorrow."
PUH LEASE! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not an ex-physics-teacher of 28 years for nothing. She is well aware of molecular motion and the effect of temperature as related to friction of tires on the road. However...the ambient temperature in the garage in the afternoon is 87 degrees. It's not like the temps are hovering around zero, making those tire sensors read all wonky.
I guess next time Farmer H is hungry, I should just tell him not to worry, because his stomach will start digesting itself.