The I HATE TESLA rant.

We drove to the city today to the Tesla dealership.

What. A. Sh*tshow.

Little recap:
Nearly five years ago, my husband leased a Tesla Model S, in part to promote his real estate brand, and in part because he believed in supporting the possibilities of what electric vehicles could achieve. We knew it was untested, uncharted territory. We knew we were getting a car from a software company, and not a car company. We knew there would be a learning curve. But it was great. It was electric, and it was, for the most part, very well thought out. Clever, even.
But then two years passed, and, as we all know, once warranty is over, things start to go wrong. They’re not really a car manufacturer after all.

Windows wouldn’t go up. Or maybe they wouldn’t go down. Or maybe door handles wouldn’t stick out, or go back in. Or the suspension would lower and not go back up. On one side. Or the software update stopped part-way and wouldn’t let you use certain features. Like a parking brake.

Every time something went on this car, we’d need to get a flatbed to take the car back to the dealership because they can’t just tow it like a normal car. We live in a town two hours away. A flatbed tow, in case you’re not aware, is expensive. Probably $600 a pop. We’ve probably had it flatbed transported ten times. IT IS MADDENING.

So last April, we were due to give the car back. Good riddance, right? But then Covid hit in March, and everything went awry. After multiple emails and phone calls inquiring about where and how we were to return it, with no real answer from anyone (“Oh, we’ll have someone from finance/sales/service call or write you back to advise you.” No one ever did – we documented everything), we just hung on to it. They stopped charging us each month, and no one followed up. Once or twice we brought it in for servicing, seasonal tire changes, the like. It’s all in their system. No one said anything.

Last month, EIGHT months after it was due to be returned, the suspension went wonky again. So we had it towed again. As they are trying to figure it out, they realize the car’s computer system states that this car is labelled “inventory”, and after some digging, realize that the car was supposed to be returned last April.

My eyes are rolling really hard into the back of my head right now.

SO. TWO days ago, I receive an invoice via snail mail that was due THREE days ago, for payment of “extra wear and tear”. It’s not much, considering we had the car for an extra eight months for “free”, but the invoice says to forward payment via mail to a PO Box in Oregon.

Tesla, ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME?

Well, we figure, We’re going to pick up stuff we’d left in the car and license plates today, might as well pay the invoice while we’re there.

I take the invoice to the Sales guy. He tells me to take it to the Service department. Service tells me to take it to Sales. I inform him that Sales sent me to him. He goes into another office with a bunch of other dudes and comes back five minutes later, indicating that the letter says I must forward payment to the PO Box in Oregon.

I glare at him.
“Don’t you think that’s a bit archaic?” I mean, come on, you’re TESLA.
He stares blankly at me. I’m not entirely sure he knows what the word means.

A Sales guy jumps in. “Oh, there’s an email and phone number. Try the number. Perhaps they can take payment via phone.”
I call the number.

After pushing through at least five numerical menus, it hangs up on me.
I do it again.
Then I get a message that says the office is closed, and that office hours are between 730 am and 330 pm, Monday to Friday.
It’s Thursday, 1015 am.

I am about to become that crazy Asian lady screaming at a car dealership. There is a pleasant-looking young salesman looking apprehensive. My husband is looking apprehensive. My husband had put in to lease another model, because it’s on brand with his marketing, and all the other options had been carefully deliberated over and winnowed out, even though we know Tesla’s service is shit and their finance department is disorganized, and there should probably be a class action law suit from Tesla drivers for all the millions of hours wasted dealing with their cars and company.

I look pointedly at the Sales guy.
“It says it’s closed.”
Sigh.

He’s right on it and writes an email to Finance, including my contact information, about expediting a way to pay this invoice. Because I am not going to f*cking hunt down a cheque and envelope and stamp and mail it to a PO Box in Oregon when I could just send it via phone or electronically in a millionth of the time.

Gotta give him credit. He’s trying.
I’ve heard nothing from Finance, still, by the way.
I start telling my husband, loudly, that we should cancel his order for the new vehicle, because there is NO WAY it is worth it to deal with this company.

It’s another thirty minutes of faffing, while they try to find where they put our old car, so we can take the plates off it.

I am so annoyed, and I’ve made sure everyone here knows it. My fuming in the corner pose has been carefully curated over the years.

“Hey, let’s go to the Porsche dealership!” says the husband.

They have an electric vehicle called the Taycan. It’s pretty slick, but they don’t have Tesla’s charging infrastructure, and…it’s a Porsche: I don’t like the flash and the ridiculousness. I cannot go get groceries in that. I cannot throw my stinky bike gear in that. I will be embarrassed to show up at a friend’s house in that. It’s too much.

We debate how it affects his branding, how clients might respond, whether or not the dog could ever go in it.

We get there and tell the sales guy we have fifteen minutes. He literally jumps to attention, gets my info, and I’m test-driving it in two minutes. My husband has already been here. “Ah! You’re the gentleman from Whistler!”
I shall roll my eyes again.

It drives like a Porsche. It feels like a little coupe. But it’s electric, and it’s quiet. “Oh, you can put the sounds on!” He pushes a button and revving sounds come on when I accelerate, but weird revving sounds, like I’m in a game of Tron. I turn it off. I wish it had a clutch.

“What’s that?”
I point to a clock-like item popping up like a pimple on the dash.
“A lap timer.” With a digital clock embedded. What an ugly, useless thing to put in my sight line.

My eyes may as well just roll on home.

I am underwhelmed.
But you know what? I bet they’d take payment via phone or electronically.
Sort your sh*t out, Tesla.

I get back in my trusty gas vehicle, equipped with car seats and clearance to handle a moderate service road and a hitch for my bike rack and space in the back for my children and dog and skis and all their collective accoutrements. Yesterday, this practical, but planet-killing car, took me to a pump track one town over, where I rode around in circles and pumped and jumped on the dirt jumper until I was a tired heap of happy.

And it may well need to do it again because I hate car dealerships so much right now. ALL OF THEM. RAAAGGH. What a waste of a day.

Rant over.