INGRID MÅNNEITRÅP - Part Två

Sunday was an absolutely gorgeous day here. I took Ingrid out to pick up scrap cardboard so I could make forms to cut the paneling for the new van. She needed a bath and the new quickie wash just opened down the street. Perfect! After the quick $4 spritz we were off. A brand new windshield is certainly noticeable. Everything is clear and crisp. It's as if I'm in a new automobile.

However, all was not well in Swedesville.

Ingrid minced no words and brought the calamity of the situation to my attention immediately. There it was, glaring at me. The sharp contrast of orange on black left nothing to chance. The message that means everything yet divulges nothing at the same time. The feared "Check Engine Light".

I quickly ran through possible scenarios and their closely related financial vacuums. I opted for the quasi-expertise of the code reader at the auto parts store. I had a doomsday event percolating in the back of my mind, hoping not to be proven correct. The last two times I stopped by to donate to his kid's college fund, my mechanic (aka Grim Reaper) alluded to the fact that there was an overbearing evil lurking in Ingrid's shadows. The code reader's findings washed the juggernaut of despair across my bright and cheery facade, reducing it to rubble.

Catalyst System Efficiency Below Threshold

So, Monday morning I paid a visit to the Grim Reaper who confirmed my misfortune and that Ingrid would need a new catalytic converter. Unfortunately for me, Ingrid's composition does not allow for inferior product. No, she would need a replacement from the land of OEM. I felt my wallet cry a little inside. The only silver tint to the dark cloud of monetary reduction was the labor cost, a paltry $112.50. I took Ingrid home on Tuesday. Don't you hate having work done that improves neither the performance nor the appearance? Such an empty, hollow feeling.

So, where does that leave me? Well, I'm waiting for problem number three to show itself. I'm holding out hope that I can start a new trend where trouble comes in twos.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat myself into a tryptophan-induced coma. Wish me luck!