Last week I took my older car to Chris and Andrew, where I routinely take it for oil changes, inspections, etc. Before the oil change, I told Chris that I was about to take a 600 mile trip through west Texas and probably wouldn't even have cell reception; I didn't want to break down (just me and my dog) because we could die of the heat before anyone found us. He assured me that his guys had done a thorough inspection of all systems and I was good to go. When I complained about the engine overheating, he just couldn't figure out why, because everything was perfect. Today, I had my neighbor take a look (not a mechanic). He showed me dirty radiator fluid (Lamb's never suggested a flush). This fluid is not supposed to be black. More disturbing was water in the oil (dripped off the dip stick) and sludge that looked like mud. This, folks, is indicative of a blown head gasket. This will kill your engine. Dead. These guys could have easily found these problems and I would have paid to have them fixed. But they didn't. I could have died this summer, all thanks to Lamb's incompetence and carelessness. Y'know, I'm somebody's mom and grandma. You would think Chris and Andrew have similar women in their lives that they wouldn't want to have this treatment. Karma, guys. It's a bitch. My agenda next week: Rip these guys a new one. This is a start.