This car, I decided, I’ll stick with the dealer for routine maintenance.

I bought the little beauty from the folks at Driver’s Village, very happy with the deal. They gave me the first oil change for free. Treated me well. Sent me some service coupons in the mail.

Then the Chevy franchise that used to be called Reymore moved from Old Liverpool Road to the big DV campus further north.

The complex is — forgive me for this — HUGE.

Nevertheless, I wound my way around to the Chevy segment and pulled into the service area for another oil change.

The price was still right compared to those oil-only joints. The people were all still friendly.

And, a bonus at the end. I was given back a freshly washed car. Yup, every trip to DV for any sort of service ends with a car wash thrown in. Nice.

Fast forward to yesterday. My car will turn 2 next week. I got a notice from DV that it’s time for the annual inspection, complete with a coupon for five bucks off.

In we went. Short wait. New sticker on the sparkling clean windshield. I climbed in.

And somebody in the chain of command from inside to parking lot had fiddled with my driver’s seat. Now, I can understand the need to slide it up closer to the pedals. But that apparently wasn’t enough. The height was changed. The slant was changed. I felt like I was in a different car.

Fiddle as I did with numerous combinations on all three controls, it still doesn’t feel exactly right. I’ll try again today for the perfect spot, I’m sure.

So, I ask, why in the world would somebody in your car for two minutes tops rock your world like this?

Am I right or am I wrong?

What has the world conspired that’s pushed your buttons lately?

Time to sound off. Comments, please.