I am quite loyal to my mechanic. When I first moved back to Wisconsin, he called me every three months to remind me to schedule an oil change after I admitted that I had (at that time in my life) a tendency to forget. I have complete faith that he will never allow me to drive off in an unsafe vehicle or charge me for more maintenance than I need. I freely admit that I am car-stupid, and he gives it to me straight. This morning when I called to schedule an oil change, he recognized my voice before I gave him my name. I like my Bruce an awful lot.

This is an area where Nick and I disagree. He takes his vehicles back to the dealership for maintenance. Especially in areas where I am not knowledgeable, I want the relationship to know that someone has my interests in mind instead of the bottom line. Bruce is my car-dad. (I adopt lots of parents all over the place.) My car-dad wouldn't steer me wrong (no pun intended—honestly). I think Nick and I have decided to agree to disagree on this one.

Yet, when my car was done and nicely backed into the stall (so I could make a quick getaway!), I felt renewed confidence in my decision: THEY RETURNED MY SEAT TO THE RIGHT POSITION! I know that they had to move it back because everybody has to move it back. People squeeze in my driver's seat and make a squished bug face while blindly, desperately, reaching for the release.

I was so tickled by this that I intended to rush home and tell Nick, thinking that this last piece would finally convince him to migrate my way. I gloated aloud in the car, with a bunch of take thats and so theres. By the time I pulled into the garage, I was all talked out and decided that he wouldn't appreciate the seat thing anyway being that he isn't THISCLOSE to needing a booster seat.