I’ve had a variety of cars, to put it gently. And with variety there is the “spice of life.” Let me just put it this way- 50% of the cars I’ve driven regularly in the past five years involved wood somewhere on the vehicle. So I’ve had to learn a little about the cars I drive to make sure I can get them to go and stop and all that good stuff.
My second car- a Buick century (with a spoiler!) was particularly Mickey-moused. It was purchased from a cousin with questionable hobbies. He even left a little bit of “herbs” as a welcome gift. Anyway, the radio installed was given to me by a guy I worked with (I actually knew a guy) and you couldn’t use the power locks otherwise the radio would shut off. It was supposedly “hot.” The little triangle window in the back seat was covered with wood because when my cousin got locked out, he thought he’d punch in the smallest window. (Smallest window, smallest repair cost, right? No, apparently you need a whole new door to replace that stupid triangle.) And there were a lot of other characteristics to the car, like the personalized “F*** You” etched into the back seat. But the Buick’s fatal flaw was a problematic radiator.
I was broke and just finished my freshman year of college when I opted to just keep on refilling the coolant instead of selling/junking the car and buying a new(er) one. So I became very familiar with buying coolant, thanks to my car-savvy brother and car-savvy boyfriend. I had no problem walking into a store or gas station and buying coolant. I knew what I needed, I knew where it was, where and how much to pour in, etc. But apparently, my blonde hair and clothing choice showed otherwise. I would go into Autozone, Shell, BP, Hess, Walmart, etc. and get the same treatment every time. “Oh sweetheart, what are you looking for? Do you know? Let me get it for you from that tall shelf. Oh, no no no, don’t buy that brand. Where’s your dad?” This wouldn’t even just come from store employees, but men who felt like it was their responsibility to rescue the damsel in distress. Now I’m all for the helpful citizen and people doing stuff for me, but it should be out of the kindness of their heart. If I had a buzz cut and flat chest, would you help me then? Probably not.
Women are capable and knowledgable. This isn’t the 50’s, if you want someone to patronize, go look up June Cleaver in the phone book. I’m no man-hating feminist (my boyfriend changes my oil while I nap- s/o to John!) but don’t condescend me due to my sex. Then we’ll have some beef, buddy. And I throw a pretty mean punch for a human.
l8r sk8rs,
Justine
Head Bitches in Charge 