Calling in the professionals

Since his Fiero got a little crispy last month, Michael has been valiantly trying to repair it. He contacted a mechanic who specializes in Fieros; Mr. Fiero, as we affectionately call him, has been wonderful in coaching Michael along, giving him tips, trying to help him avoid bringing the car in. But last week, Michael realized he’d reached the end of his mechanical abilities and Mr. Fiero agreed it was time to turn the car over to the professionals. Mr. Fiero and a buddy drove to our house on Saturday, loaded up Michael’s car and drove it off.

Mr. Fiero checking out the car. He was impressed with it
and the work Michael had done.

(It didn’t dawn on me until right now that we paid him to tow the car and we’ve never even seen his shop. Our only contact with him has been on the phone…)

Mr. Fiero thinks he’ll have the car all fixed up by this weekend, which was music to Michael’s ears. And mine. I’ve felt so bad for the little car just sitting in our driveway. Three different cars drive in and out of our driveway and the poor little Fiero just watches us come and go. As I pass him by, I picture him just begging us to get him fixed so he can hit the road again. I blame my personification of all inanimate objects on Disney movies.

Anyway, Michael’s car should be ready to go soon, which is a good thing since he doesn’t want to take his senior pictures until the car can be in them, too. On one hand, that sounds absolutely crazy. But on the other, can you imagine the car not in the picture? Nope, me neither.