Ok, so I am trying really hard not to "go feministic" here. Truly. I generally don't have a "girls-can-do-anything-boys-can-do" chip on my shoulder.
This is more of a red-faced, hopping up and down, shouting, "WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME?????" kind of rant. Have you visualized that tantrum? It's followed by a good ol' Charlie Brown "ARRRRRRGH!"
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I tell the mechanic on the phone: I know what's wrong. I know where the leak is coming from. What I don't know is how to explain it in automotive lingo. So my description runs like this:
"Ok, so the guys who replaced my windshield a while back - I called them when water started leaking into my car. I figured it was the windshield and they needed to fix it. They came out, and when I showed them the location of the leak inside the car, they knew whatexactly the problem was; and it wasn't the windshield. You open the hood, pull off some kind of shield thing, and under THAT is a rubber channel that's supposed to point the water away from the middle of the car to the side. Only it came unglued, so the water ran straight into the car. So they reglued it. So it must be lose again. It leaks when it rains."Silence.
"So your windshield is leaking? We don't do much with that."
"No. It's not the windshield. It's leaking into the car from under where the windshield attaches to the car. There's this strip under there..."
"What year is it?"
"2006 Impala."
"I've never seen anything like that in a 2006 Impala."
*crickets chirping*
Really, what is the appropriate response to (the implied) "Since I'VE PERSONALLY never seen this issue, I doubt what you describe is REALLY the problem"? (again, if I was going to really rail here, I would ascribe something to his thoughts like, "silly girl - you know not the mysterious inner-workings of the automobile" ... but I'm resisting, remember?)
"Ok, well we'll take a look at it. Phone number please?"So I drop off the car. The man at the desk is not the same person I spoke to ... so a bit of repetition on my part, followed by a blank stare. I cross the street to the coffee shop. I have some child-free time to read a few magazines and watch my Buschemi-esque grease monkey (that's an endeering term, right?) sleuth.
He opens the hood. He peers into the car. He pulls off all kinds of panel pieces. He pulls up the carpet. He puts it up on the lift (I had to Google that, by the way). Although I rarely see him, I imagine he is puzzled, scratching various body parts and readjusting his hat frequently.
I walk over and get a pedicure. As the beautiful, fragrant bubbles caress my tootsies, I get a call.
"Mrs. Maize?"
"Yes."
"This is [insert shop name here]."
"Uh-huh."
"When did you say you had that windshield replaced?"
I try to dig back into my memory, all the while knowing the futility of this conversation. He says he's not giving up, but he isn't quite sure what's "going on."
After two coats of "Chop-Sticking to My Story" and the requisite drying time, I head back to the shop.
I will truncate this story by saying: what I said was wrong? was wrong. Only, in HIS defense, instead of the "thingy" being disconnected, it was merely inadequate; the water was running OVER it. Directly into the air filter, which sits over the passenger's feet. He proclaimed it a stupid design. He couldn't believe it didn't have some kind of cover on it. And his master plan was, amusingly enough, to make one out of duct tape.
I have no problem with that. I love me some duct tape.
I HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HAVING TOLD THE MAN WHERE TO FIND THE SOURCE OF THE PROBLEM ... HOURS AGO. $100 AGO. THREE MAGAZINES AND A PEDICURE AGO.
Am I alone here?
