Monday, Jun. 14, 2004 - 3:47 P.M.

Car trouble. Ugh. Need I say more? For me, those two words, when put together, conjure up all sorts of bad imagery and abnormal and involuntary muscle reactions. Though this entry is about car trouble only indirectly. This entry is about car repairs. (I can almost hear the shrieking from you all.)

In 1987 I bought my first and only brand new car. For 6 years, 11 months and 29 days, it never gave me one problem. However, at year 7 it up and decided on its own that it needed a complete overhaul. And, rather than all parts failing at once, wouldn�t it be so much more fun if they failed individually, one about every 2 weeks? Preferably when there was another crisis afoot?

At the time my car mutinied, I was single and unmanned. I�m not a woman who had a problem being unmanned. Being single most definitely had its advantages. I quite liked making a go of it alone. Except for taking my car to the garage for repairs; doing so while (1) female (2) not knowing anything about cars and (3) alone, ranks right up there with shaving your legs with (1) an old, rusty razor (2) no water and (3) during an earthquake. It�s excruciating. And, frankly? Hopeless and a tad intimidating. Let me be clear here, I�m not some poor little me girly-girl. I�m not shy about speaking up and I have no problem exerting myself. I don�t wallow in self-pity (much) and I can yank the hope right out of hopeless. But since I didn�t know anything about what the problem might be, I felt at a loss when being told I needed this or that part which discouraged me and pissed me off. No doubt it was due to the fact that I felt I was being taken for a ride, and probably was. However, unless I want to sign my lazy ass up for Auto Mechanics 101 at the community college, there�s little I can do about it. Well, not only my ass, I think it�d be good learning for the rest of me as well.

I mean, you know, I�d go to the garage and I�d get, "Hey there, little lady. What�s the problem today?" After expressing my displeasure at the �little lady� part, I explained the problem. To which the mechanic replied, �Is there someone you�d like me to talk it over with after we take a look at �er?� Which is meant to suss out whether or not there�s a man around who might realize this guy is about to screw me. Then I�d be all, �No, just call me at the number I left,� which was met with one of two things, either "::long whistle::" followed by, "It don�t sound good. Prob�ly really gonna cost ya" or his unspoken thought of, �Holy shit! We got us a live one boys! We can tell her anything!� Schmucks. (Incidentally, did you know there is a Yiddish word, pronounced the same, but spelled �shmok,� which means �penis?� Fitting, eh?)

It was a sucky time and, like all sucky parts of my life, I tried to glean a tiny bit of knowledge from it. I hope what I have learned will serve to alleviate another�s pain. I have determined the following: if it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it. You should probably just kill it or burn it and move on.

Have that cross-stitched on a throw pillow, Ladies.

You Give Me Fervor - Friday, Feb. 17, 2006
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I'm Not Dead - Tuesday, Jan. 10, 2006
Ebert And Roeper? Watch Your Backs. - Tuesday, Nov. 29, 2005
Coffee? Tea? Map? - Monday, Nov. 07, 2005

� Purplecigar

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