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“The Power of Mum”

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but Tiggy, our sweet little SUV, is cursed. He has only required annually scheduled servicing since he was purchased in 2010 and, on the whole, he rocks. Ter and I are madly in love with him. He’s safe, solid, dependable, quick as a lizard, fierce as a tiger, and cute as the proverbial button.

Except after he’s been serviced. Here’s the history:

2011 – Tig’s first scheduled service and I’m sure something happened the next day, but perhaps this is only because something did happen the following year... and the one after that ... and the one after that ...

2012 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s second scheduled service, Ter hears a loud bang! and the steering goes funky. She pulls over immediately to discover the far rear tire is flat as a pancake. When the tow truck arrives, the driver shows her the chunk of metal responsible for the gaping hole in the tire’s tread. Eyes wide, she gasps, “When did I pick that up?”

“Oh, right now,” the guy assures her. The tire is shot but the dealer doesn’t carry that model, so it takes a couple of days (and a couple hundred dollars) to get Tig a new shoe.

2013 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s third scheduled service, Ter is rear-ended when the guy behind her doesn’t see that traffic ahead has stopped. Tiggy weathered it fairly well, but Ter was whiplashed and to this day is still in treatment for it. Tig spent two days in the shop and is sporting a new rear bumper, paid for courtesy of the other guy’s insurance. Needless to say, both Ter and Tiggy are now hyper-nervous about tailgaters. I merely wish that a flame-throwing exhaust pipe was an option, ’cause I’d have ordered one while he was in for repairs.

2014 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s fourth scheduled service (and immediately following a chiropractic adjustment), Ter is merging onto the highway when Tiggy *binks* at her. She’s accustomed to his *bink* – usually he’s signalling that the temperature is ripe for snow, so she’s actually about to say, “Tig, it is not going to snow!” What emerges is a sharp, “Crap, Tiguan! What the hell is this?”

The tire pressure warning light has engaged. Panicked and in pain, she gets him to the dealer, where a technician is corralled to inspect all four tires. The diagnosis is a computer glitch—a fair assessment, since immediately after the tire incident in 2012, the same light went on, Ter had the same panic attack, and it turned out that the computer needed resetting to acknowledge the new tire. Present day mystery solved—but while the car is here, the part they ordered to fix the oil leak has come in, so can she leave it with them for the day?

What oil leak?

Oh, the one that had been discovered during inspection and supposedly fixed the day before. Apparently the service associate thought the fix had been made, but such was not the case. Ter is really steaming now – she has to interview a new finance clerk in the afternoon so she must get to the office. Hand it to the service staff at the shop—they rallied to take care of her and her leaky little SUV. She got a courtesy car and Tiggy got his oil leak fixed. He was also washed twice in two days; more baths than he’s had all winter.

We’re now in the clear … until his next service appointment in 2015.

I’m only superstitious about hockey games, but this after-service curse is getting ridiculous. In a weird way, and perhaps unwittingly but one never knows, I think Mum might be responsible. Years ago, once Ter and I had agreed to replace our beloved Jules, the time came to tell my parents what we were getting. We knew going in that it could cause a ripple because my folks were kids in Scotland during WW II and Tiggy is ...

... a Volkswagen.

Dad took the news pretty well, but my stalwart-rebel-Scottish-nationalist mother was uncommonly reserved. After a while, she quietly confessed, “My dears, I am sorry, but I remember what the Germans did to us during the war.”

Giving the sentiment due consideration, we bought the VW anyway. Gods bless her, Mum says she’s forgiven us (as if we were ever in danger of being disowned—that’s Dad’s gig), but I suspect that deep inside, whenever she looks at our Tiguan, she winces. Ja, he’s German. He nags like a Nazi and makes you sit up straight. He runs like a military machine and thinks he’s superior to every other car on the road … but he’s our little tank and we love him so, Mum, can you please do something about lifting the hex?