OK. Let's talk about me for a while here.

Actually let's talk about my car, Princess Fiona, who, in all her Aquamarine Mist glory, has of late been a royal pain in my ______ (fill in the blank with a body part of your choosing. My part of choice is covered by your bathing suit.)

We'll do this in chronological point form, otherwise I will go on ranting for the next 5000 words, and I have actually considered that what has been a miserable week for me might actually be a boring story for you.

Of course, no one's making you read this. Except my husband. I am making him read it.

3 weeks ago: You may not have got the impression from my post, but when I was up in Edmonton IT WAS COLD. Like minus ridiculous degrees without the wind, and minus kill-me-now with the wind chill. The morning after the temperatures plummeted into the frigid depths of arctic hell, I went out to start Fiona and got nothing. And I mean nothing. It was like asking the 14-year-old me to participate in one of the many family meetings. There was dead silence and probably some eye rolling going on behind my back.

So we jumped the car, put it in the garage, plugged it in and charged the battery. Since this solved the problem, we just figured that my battery was starting to wear out, and had drained quickly in the cold. I drove back to Calgary the next day and drove around for several weeks without so much as an argument from Fiona.

Last Friday (Feb. 8): Temperatures dropped way down again, but the car was plugged in, and I had no trouble starting it. So off I drove to the track for two runs that were about as pleasant as streaking in Antarctica. After training I head home without a care in the world.

As I was driving up Sarcee Trail (I know this probably means nothing to you, but keep these street names in mind for future reference) I noticed that my radio kept turning off. Weird. Then, as I rolled to a stop on Sarcee at the 17th Ave. lights, I flicked on my windshield wipers and they moved about as quickly as I do during any hour of the day that is traditionally considered 'morning.'

Weird.

Now, here's a hint for everyone: a car is not like a computer. Turning your car off in order to restart it was not exactly the ideal course of action in this situation. Let's just say that the car didn't reboot. So there I am sitting in the middle of a major thoroughfare without an ounce of juice in my battery and with about as much patience.

As I panic-dialed everyone in my contact list and braced myself for the impact of a semi rear-ending me at 60 mph, a good samaritan pulled in front of me and asked if I needed a ride. What I really needed was a boost, and he gladly obliged, helping me push my car out of the path of oncoming 18-wheelers and jumping my cranky princess into action. Thank you DAH 797!

As I drove off, I figured again that it must be my battery, since we were able to jump Fiona back into action.

That was until I got about 7/8ths of the way home and noticed that my heater had stopped working. And my tachometer needle had died. And there goes my speedometer. And my gas gauge. I held my breath and willed my car off at my exit, through two sets of lights and into my parking spot, where Fiona promptly crashed like a teenager on a Saturday morning.

After consulting with the mechanic who happens to own the basement I currently live in, we decided to try switching out the battery anyways, seeing as it looked the original, and could be causing alternator problems.

So we did. (And by we, I mean he called an associate, he took out my old battery, he went to pick up the new one, and he installed it, while I took a bath and ate popcorn).

And then he went to Hawaii for a week.

Saturday (Feb. 9): I got up in the morning and headed out, without so much as a mutter from Fiona. Except, now my battery light was on. Kinda. Whenever I revved the engine to about 2700 RPM, the light dimmed. But otherwise, she seemed to be okay.

So I drove out to the mall to meet a friend, then home again, where I plugged her in, and didn't think twice about her for the rest of the evening.

Sunday (Feb. 10): Got up, drove to church, drove home with no problems, except the battery light coming and going. Drove out to the track, radio blaring, windshield wipers flying, tickers flashing, and gauges ... ummm ... gaging. Had a race. Won a medal. Went out with some teammates afterward for a bite to eat, and then headed home.

Except that now it was nighttime. And what had looked like a flickering battery light in the daytime, looked like the glowing red eyes of Satan at nighttime. I hadn't driven more than five minutes when, POOF, there goes my radio. POOF, there goes my heater. POOF, there my gauges. POOF, there goes my headlights.

Oh, yeah, and POOF, there goes my FUEL INJECTION SYSTEM.

And, POOF, I coast to a stop.

Hey, why don't you ask me where I coasted to a stop? What's that you ask? Where did I coast to a stop?

Oh, right. ON SARCEE TRAIL AT 17TH AVENUE. Are you kidding me?

Since I had nothing to do for two hours while I waited for a tow truck, I got out, peed in the bushes (hey, little orphan Annie is right: when you gotta go, you gotta go) and took pictures of the most useless thing on four wheels, formerly known as Princess Fiona, now known as Lucifer, Devil King of the Underworld:

Okay, now here's where the story begins.

At three bucks per kilometer, I decided to have the car towed a couple blocks up to Canadian Tire, instead of the 30 clicks to Cranston. Although Canadian Tire isn't my first choice for car repairs, I figured it was the best choice in the case, seeing as it was now midnight.

Now, given all the symptoms and the fact that we had just put in a new battery, I figured it was my alternator that would need to be replaced. So I threw my keys in the overnight drop box with instructions to that effect, and my teammate and his very big, very affectionate dog, gave me a ride home. Which was VERY nice of him, considering 1) It was his night off work; 2) It was midnight; and 3) I live about as far as possible from his place. THANK YOU PAUL AND LARGE DOG!

Monday (Feb. 11): Got up early - and by early I actually mean early by rest-of-the-world standards, not Michelle standards - and called Canadian Tire right away, to reiterate that the battery is NOT the problem, and not to replace it.

CT calls me back a few hours later to tell me that my battery is dead and needs to be replaced.

Well, did you test my alternator, I ask? They can't test my alternator because my battery is dead.

ARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH.

Dude, listen to me. I drove for three days with my charging system light on. So ... ummm ... yeah ... OF COURSE MY BATTERY IS DEAD, YOU MORON. Hmmm ... how 'bout this? Why don't you put a test battery in, and check the alternator?

So they call me back a few hours later to tell me that my alternator is fine, and have some convoluted explanation about how putting a new battery in the car and driving without slow charging it is very bad for the alternator.

What the ... ? As far as I know, if you can get the piece of machinery started, the alternator will do the rest, even if the battery has a weak charge. But hey, what the hell do I know? It's not like my airplane has an alternator or anything.

So I call the battery dude, who doesn't have the slightest clue what the CT MORON is talking about.

I call the CT MORON back to try and get more information, but apparently asking questions is frowned upon, because really, how could I possibly understand this very complicated problem, seeing as, unlike him, I don't have a Canadian Tire-issued certificate indicating that I have completed the two-weekend "Car Care & Inspection" course, and especially seeing that I have boobs. He spoke very slowly for me and told me "Your battery is dead."

Ooooooohhhhhhhh! So that's the problem. Oh right yeah, that makes sense ... BECAUSE I DROVE FOR THREE DAYS WITH A BUSTED ALTERNATOR.

ARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH.

Finally, I tell them to just charge my battery and I will pick up my car the next morning, hoping that maybe when we put the new battery in it didn't get clamped down properly, and that maybe the alternator really is okay.

Tuesday (Feb. 12): Got up rest-of-the-world early AGAIN, and took the bus across town to pick up my car on the way to the track. I get my keys and pay CT MORON #2 a stupid amount for, in the end, having them tell me my battery is dead.

Start my car, and, oh, what a surprise, look the battery light is on.

I storm inside, and let CT MORON #2 know, in no uncertain terms, that I am not impressed. The manager was standing right next to him and could see that I was about to lose it, and told CT MORON #2 to take my car right back in and test the alternator again.

Half an hour later: "Oh, it looks like there is something wrong with alternator."

Let's pause for a moment here, and I will allow to insert whatever reaction your imagination can construct. If it includes several four-letter words and my being restrained by other customers, then we'll say that you are pretty close.

Then I made a few phone calls, and took my car to a reputable mechanic who had a new alternator in the car within two hours. And who actually listened to what I had to say even though I don't have a Canadian Tire-issued certificate indicating that I have completed the two-weekend "Car Care & Inspection" course. And even though I have boobs.

In conclusion, here's what I think of Canadian Tire Service Centres:

The end.

P.S. That was only 1,785 words.