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When Fixing Becomes Breaking



  The days of the week seem to never go as planned, unless one lives in a Utopian universe where plans set in stone are easily accomplished. Such was last week. 
I sold my car and got a scooter. A cute little thing which barely reaches 30 miles per hour up a steep hill. I should say, more literally, I got the scooter first, but I had to decide about the car before making that purchase. I reasoned that the car was giving me more headache than it was worth, and I only go to the library, and occasionally the grocery store. So, there was no need for four wheels and a guzzling gas tank to take me the mile and a half to town. 
All went well, until I slipped on the wet grass pulling into my parking space at home. I was fine, but a bit of oil spilled out of the engine through an escape valve. Of course, I would need to refill the oil before I could ride it again, as the oil level was subsequently rather low. I planned to go out the next day, so I found oil and after looking up where the oil was supposed to be located, I poured it in. But the oil level didn’t rise. 
I did a more thorough internet search, and found I had indeed poured the oil into the transmission. The internet prophesied disaster for engine oil in transmissions, and I went to bed after 10 pm in a very frustrated state of mind. Now, I had to wait until for a couple days until I got the right materials to undo my damage done by only a flashlight for light late at night. I paid for the necessary supplies, changed the oil in my scooter and prepared to ride. In the process I discovered my delinquent inspection sticker, so I made an appointment to get the inspection before going to the DMV for the proper license for driving my scooter. (Since it goes faster than 25 miles per hour, I have to have a different license to drive it.) 
I took the scooter down the street to get it inspected, and when I got there, I smelled oil burning. Or rather I saw and smelled it, because smoke was coming from the hot exhaust pipe where oil had evidently dripped. I peered under the scooter and found that the cap for the oil filter wasn’t tight enough, and it was leaking. I figured it would be fine until I got back home when I could tighten it. 
I turned the bolt a little tighter, but it wasn’t working correctly. I turned it the opposite direction to see if I had been going the wrong way, but I wasn’t. Then, the head of the bolt snapped off, leaving the threaded portion inside the cavity. I felt like nothing could really be worse. All that, and now a broken bolt. I waited a day and Dad looked at it, declaring we needed the correct tools, because what we had wouldn’t work. (May I add, the broken piece was in a very difficult spot. It was hard enough to just remove the bolt normally, never mind removing a broken piece.) I dropped a few more dollars, bought a set of replacement bolts, and went home. 
Dad and I worked together and using a chisel I bought. He ground down the tip, and together we removed the broken piece. Alas, the replacement was too small. I rushed to the store while the lady held it open for me, bought the correct size, and then the washer didn’t fit. Chagrined, I went back to the store the next day, and beheld the only box of washers available: eleven dollars. I just needed one tiny washer. 
Earlier that day, someone had reminded me of the proverb, “When it rains, it pours.” I resigned myself to pay it, but whispered to the cashier, “I only need one washer.” She hunted around in the back and found a solitary washer. The manager told her to just give it to me. “I was not going to let her pay eleven dollars when she only needed one washer,” she replied. I walked out the door with my tiny washer, fitted it on the bolt, and finished the oil change. This time, the oil did not leak. I hope nothing else like that happens again any time soon.

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