Millenium Years Old

I finally drummed up enough money to get the oil changed in my car over at the Jiffy Lube yesterday. As I pulled into the lot I was waived toward the proper bank by a perky lad in latex surgical gloves. What is up with that? Since when did burly mechanics care if they had grease under their fingernails?

"Are you here for our Signature Service today, Ma'am?"

Apparently my alien/human universal translator was on the fritz. I simply could not figure out what he meant. Wasn't he going to give me a choice as to what kind of service I was getting? How did I know if it was the Signature Service I wanted? What if it was a trick? What if I was supposed to say, "Perhaps I just want the Unsigned Service." What if by saying I wanted the Signature Service I was dooming myself to the full deal and my bill would come to 300 dollars?

He was waiting patiently and I was looking confused. As in all such situations I turned to humor as my shield. "Oh, I was actually looking for a burger and some fries. Isn't this the drive up window for MacDonalds?"

"Pop your hood for me, Ma'am, and then come right this way."

I lumbered after him still fretting over just what I was committing to and was told, "Just have a seat Ma'am and we'll send your fries right in to you."

Well, why not? It's probably the same kind of oil used in either place.

Eventually another man, also wearing latex gloves, came to the cash register and called my name. Assuming I had entered the Special Needs Germaphobe Jiffy Lube I was careful to use my own pen and not touch any unnecessary surfaces as I signed on the dotted line and paid my $39.95 for the Signature Service. (Whew!)

"Your vehicle is ready and we will see you in 3000!"

I was again confused by yet another unfathomable remark but I quickly recovered enough to reply, "Well, I don't think I'll still be alive by then!"

Glove Unit #2 turned fully around in the hallway and stopped in his tracks, staring at me. "I mean 3000 miles, Ma'am."

Oh.