My car started leaking power steering fluid last week. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach the first time I noticed the wheel being slightly more groany than usual on a sharp turn, so I checked the power steering fluid when I got home. It was at less than half the acceptable level. My mood turned foul immediately because
(a) my car (Mr. Fabu) is my baby. He's a piece of crap, but he's my piece of crap that I worked hard to get.
(b) I'm poor, and even poorer now than I previously was, because I'm working less to finish my damn thesis. And bad car noises almost always mean dropping an unacceptable amount of money on repairs.
I looked at the power steering pump more closely the next day, with the advantage of daylight. I consulted my Haynes manual to see what the hoses coming out of it do and where they go. I watched my car's guts intently, waiting to see a drop of power steering fluid (by now there was a sizeable puddle in the driveway). I pondered and hypothesized.
Enter my neighbors, a couple about the same age as Mark and me who share our driveway. The male, seeing a woman staring intently at her car's inner workings, made two assumptions:
(a) that something is wrong with her car
(b) that she has no understanding of anything underneath the hood of her car.
You know what they say about people who assume? They make an ass out of u and me.
"Uh oh, what's the problem?" he asked, strolling over confidently to play the hero to the damsel in distress.
"It's leaking power steering fluid," I said, knowing he would offer the knowlege of cars that is inherent in those blessed with a penis.
But I was wrong. He didn't offer. Instead, he moved into my personal space, forcing me aside so he could have my view of the power steering pump.
Why is it that so many men assume that having a uterus and knowing the first thing about cars are mutually exclusive? The last time I took my car in for an oil change and safety check, I told the guy at the counter it was a 1997 Grand Am SE.
"Do you know how many cylinders it has?" He asked, patronizingly. He obviously knew the answer, as it's impllied by the 'SE.'
"Four," in my most patronizing voice.
"Good for you," he said as if I was a two-year-old who'd just used the potty for the first time. Mark put his hand on my arm to restrain me.
Anyway, trying to be grateful for my neighbor's concern, I moved to the side of the car and pointed to the place on the pressure hose where I'd seen a drip form and fall, and where a buildup of moisture and crud had formed a black goo on the plastic casing of the hose. I told him the theory I'd formulated moments earlier, that there was a leak in the pressure hose in that very spot.
He more or less ignored my prattling on and said he thought there was a crack in the pump where the pressure hose hooked in. He then gave me a lesson on the anatomy of the power steering pump (even though I'd already pointed out the pressure hose and called it by its proper name and had my Haynes open), mentioned a repair shop and wished me luck with it. I thanked him as graciously as I could and sighed with relief once he was inside and out of my way.
I consulted CarTalk.com and my friend Linsey who has lived in Hamilton most of her life for the name of a good local repair shop. Then I called the one they concurred on and took Mr. Fabu in for a checkup, dragging Mark along with me. Based on my previous experience with mechanics, it seems to be a good idea for a woman to have a guy around, just for show if nothing else, when taking her car into the shop. And my neighbor hadn't really convinced me that the stereotype about women and cars had been broken down.
The mechanic who looked my car had the problem diagnosed within five minutes. And lo and behold, it was exactly what I thought, marking the second time in a row I've taken my car into the shop and been right about the problem (the alternator went bad last time). It was an easy fix, not economically devastating, and my car was as good as old the next day.
So tonight, the day after I got my car back, my neighbor was outside smoking when I got home from work. "Did you ever get that leak fixed?" he asked.
"Yeah, and it was just what I thought it was." (I swear I wasn't gloating when I said it.) Again, he ignored me.
"Was it what I thought it was?" he asked.
"What did you think it was again?" I honestly didn't remember, because I'd stopped listening to his theory the second I realized he was ignoring mine.
He repeated his idea about a crack in the pump.
I told him about the pressure hose and repeated that it was just what I thought it was. He seemed unimpressed. I, however, was trying to hold back a "so there," complete with snapping action.
He finished his cigarette and said goodnight as I was getting my stuff out of the car. Again, I was relieved to see the sexist bastard go inside.
