Today was the day I’ve been waiting for:  The IRS kindly made a sizeable deposit into my checking account.  Yes, the old income tax refund has finally arrived!  Oh joy, oh bliss, oh happy day indeed!

Armed with the knowledge that my debit card would no longer bounce like a super ball, I set out this morning for a little retail therapy.  My first stop?  The TIRE STORE!

Granted, buying four new tires isn’t exactly as glamourous as a day at the spa, but hey, I love my Jeep Cherokee, and the tires I had been tooling around on looked a lot like Michael Jordan’s head.  So I sucked it up and decided it was time.

Before I joined the ranks of the gainfully unemployed last week, I plotted a careful strategy to spend every last dime of that refund — no holes were to be burned in these pockets!  After all, it was my money; I earned it, and the IRS didn’t want it, so I figured, what the heck?

After losing my job, I reassessed the wisdom (or lack thereof) of my earlier plan.  OK, I still need new tires, but maybe I can do without the groceries and fill-up at the gas station.  As for doctor visits, they can wait.  New strategy in place now.  Must buy TIRES!!

I did decide to spend as little as possible on those nondescript pieces of rubber.  After all, if you go fast enough, nobody can read the raised white letters, anyway.  So when the guy behind the counter asked me what I wanted, I replied, “Cheap.  Give me the cheapest tire available in my size.”  No peacock has ever been more proud.

You know the old saying:  Pride goeth before a fall, and yes, my backside is a little tender this evening.  For you see, only two varieties were in stock in a P-225-75-R-15.  (That’s tire guy talk for my size.)  Now if I’m willing to step up to a 235, then I’ll have a LOT more options!  “This first tire here is (hesitate) OK, (hesitate again), but it’s actually designed for passenger cars, and it’ll wear out pretty quick on that SUV there.  Now this other one is cheap, but it only comes with Road Hazard.  There is no mileage warranty.”

Throughout my lifetime, it has been my experience that warranties actually guard against my needing them.  It’s as if major appliances, water heaters, and yes, tires somehow know when their warranties run out, opening the way for them to fail at will.  So the idea of paying for a warrantless tire — let alone four of them — caused my heart to skip a beat.

“All right, show me what you’ve got in a 235.”  He had me — hook, line, and sinker.  Let’s just say that I ended up spending almost as much on one tire as I had hoped to spend on all four.  But wait!  It gets even better!

After shelling out more money than I’m willing to admit here, I thought I might still be able to swing by the Mini-Mart and pick up a gallon of milk.  But NO!!!  The tire guy had even MORE good news for me!

“I’m really surprised those brakes of yours aren’t grinding.  You know your front pads are 99.9% gone?”  Forget skipping a beat.  This time, my heart sank outright.

Maybe it’s sexist of me, but I’m always a little suspicious of mechanics (and tire guys) who seem to see dollar signs floating over female customers’ heads.  I asked to see the brakes for myself.

He was right; my front brakes were shot.  But what he DIDN’T know is that I’m perfectly capable of making that determination independent of him.  And I know how much replacement parts cost.

He told me new rotors would cost $79.95 EACH!!!  Then there are the pads, new calipers (mine are stuck?!), and of course, labor charges.  I told him to put my wheels — complete with their fancy new tires — back on the Jeep.  He did.

Next stop:  The Parts Store.  I bought my rotors (for $29.96 each), along with all of the other brake parts, and even splurged for a couple of new shocks.  Anything called a shock seemed somehow strangely appropriate.

Then I drove to my brother’s house, being extra careful not to tailgate.  He’ll help me change my front end one day soon, and we’ll share some quality family time.  My brother is both my hero and my friend.

Right now, I’m safely at home, new tires on, parts in the back of the Jeep, and all is well.  But I’ve gotta ask:  Can I borrow a gallon of milk?