So we needed new wiper blades for the minivan. I've bought wiper blades before and figured I could handle this task, so I stopped in an auto parts store in Watertown.
I walk up to the little machine that tells me what blades I need, punch in the numbers for a 2004 Honda Odyssey and pick up my two blades. Great. I pay, I leave.
When I get home I install one on the driver's side without a hitch, then go to install the passenger one, only to realize that the passenger side requires a different size blade. For some reason the designers at Honda thought that since the car has three wiper blades (two on the front, one in the back) it should take three different sizes. I don't know why this makes sense, but I'm hoping they have a good reason for it. Since my 1991 Volvo manages to have two wipers of the same size, I'm guessing it has something to do with the Odyssey being a more technologically "advanced" vehicle.
So I took Shoshi and headed back to the auto parts store to exchange my wiper blade. This seemed like a pretty straightforward thing to do.
I walked up to the register where I was immediately, and silently, pointed to another desk where four men stood behind the counter, three of them punching feverishly at computers. One, wearing a red shirt with a name tag that said "John" told me that he couldn't help me, but the man next to him, wearing a blue shirt with a name tag that said "John," could. But blue John was assisting someone else.
So I stood there with my toddler jumping around at my feet, constantly nervous that she would touch something she shouldn't be. She shed her jacket and continued her wandering.
After about five minutes, blue John finally finished with his customer, but then ended up on the phone, so Shoshi and I stood some more. Finally he had time for me. He took my wiper blade and told me to go back and find the one I needed while he started processing my exchange.
My trip to the back was seemingly successful and I returned to the front to do my simple exchange. Suddenly I was asked my name, phone number, address, name of first born, any recognizable scars or tattoos, etc.
After going through all this I was finally told that I'd be getting $2 back. Yay! But Blue John needed approval from another guy, this one in a black shirt. I didn't see his name tag, but let's call him "John." Black-shirted John was busy cavorting with a friend/customer and had to be dragged away, he pushed one button and moved on. Maybe the shirt color makes a difference in what buttons a John can push.
So I handed over my credit card, which I had used originally, and started getting Shoshi's jacket back on. But when I stood up from fighting her with the coat (my attempt was unsuccessful), I was handed a piece of paper along with my new wiper blade and told that I needed to go to the register. Apparently, I have $2 in the computer, but to get it back on my card I had to go to an actual register.
At this point I just started laughing. So I trooped over to the cashier (the one who silently pointed me to the Johns) handed her my valuable piece of paper, again bent over to put on Shoshi's coat (this time I got it) and stood up to find her handing over $2 in cash! I tried questioning it, wondering why it didn't end up back on my card, but just gave up. I had a wiper blade, had wasted a good 15 or 20 minutes and just wanted to get home.
I put Shoshi in the car and tried to put it on, only to mess something up and break it.
So I put the old one on and went home.
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