Sometimes I hate being a girl

Here's the deal: I'm not really a very good girl. I'm not saying I'm not a "good girl", I'm saying I'm not very good at being a girl. I do not have the decorator gene. I do not have a good sense of style in general. I have figured out that if I go to certain stores and ask the sales people to pick out cute clothes for me, that sometimes works. I have rarely ever been good at socializing with other girls in my societally defined peer groups, either. A lot of women really bug the heck out of me. 

When I was 16-years-old, my parents gave me a new car. (Stay with me. I know this looks like I'm changing the subject but I will get back around to it again. I promise.) We lived at the bottom of a very large hill. About two-thirds of the way up the hill was my high school. At the tippy top of the hill was our church, where I was very active. On the backside of the hill was my best friend's house. And scattered all around the hill were various other friends and commitments. I needed a way to get around and my mom wanted me to have something reliable, not something used.

Now, before you go on telling me how spoiled I was, (lest I need to remind you that I grew up shopping at Gemco and The Treasury for my clothing and my parents to this day do not have cable television,) you also need to know a few other things about my car. First, this was the very first year that Hyundais were introduced in the United States and my car was a gold, stick shift Hyundai hatchback. (In fairness, my mom thought I would like the gold part. She thought she was doing me a favor by picking that color.) My friends used to sing "Hyundai Bloody Hyundai" to me. If you don't understand the cultural reference point, and you are under the age of 60, I don't know if I can help you without rolling my eyes very deeply.

Furthermore, before I could drive my own car, by myself, I had to accomplish a few things. I am actually leaving out the most embarrassing details of this situation to protect someone. I don't know if I'm protecting me or my reallllllly over protective mother but it's one of us.

The first thing I had to be able to do was to change a tire all by myself. This meant I had to jack up the car, loosen the lug nuts, remove a tire, put a full-sized tire back onto the car, and tighten the lug nuts again, all without any help whatsoever from any other human being. If I at any time had to be helped, I had to finish the job and start over again from the beginning. To give you an idea, my dad figured out that I had to have a lead pipe to put on the lug nut wrench thingie, to give me enough leverage to loosen the lug nuts. I had to stand on the pipe with my hands on the car and jump on the pipe to get the lug nuts loosened. But I did it. By myself. My father did not believe in paying for AAA.

When it was time to change the oil on my car, I had to do it by myself. And I did. I replaced all sorts of things on that car. I never used full service gas stations. I regularly checked my oil level and my fluid levels. I washed my car on the weekends and before I finished, I opened up the hood to pour the soapy water over the engine. Yes, I did. I blasted water through the tires until it ran clear. I took care of that car, yes I did. At some point we figured out that my model year had a chronic problem with water pumps and every few years we had to go put in a new water pump. I don't remember having to replace it myself but I had to at least stand and watch my dad do it.

I changed out my own windshield wipers, too. I remember the first time I unhooked the thingiemajigger (that's the technical name for it,) and slid the old piece of rubber off and slid in a brand new little rubber thingie and they were as good as new.

Things have changed.

I married a man who believes in AAA. Do you know how glorious AAA is? Not only do you get free maps and books and travel planning services, but if you need help, you do not have to stick a lead pipe onto the lug nut wrench, put your hands on the roof of the car, and jump on it to loosen the lug nuts. They'll send some guy out to do all that for you! Seriously. It's amazing. Not that I've had to do it yet, but I've had to be towed and a few weeks ago, AAA even came to my house to jump start the PerkyMommyMobile when the boys kept the interior dome lights turned on all night and DaddyDoc's little magic jump-start the car box was out of juice.

I do not have to change my oil anymore, either. For a few years, we paid other people to do that. Now that we have our own garage to work in, DaddyDoc changes the oil for me. He checks all the fluids, too. 

Today was the final straw for the windshield wipers on the PerkyMommyMobile. The only thing they did was to smear the rainwater all over the windshield. I could not decide if I was better off with the wipers turned on or off. And since no one had fixed them for me since the first few times I complained about the sorry state of the wipers, I figured, Hey, I am an entirely capable woman. I can go get my own dang windshield wipers and fix them myself. It's not that difficult.

I really hate being a girl sometimes. 

I went to Pep Boys. Thank goodness for Pep Boys. I will be returning to Pep Boys in the future and I encourage others to, also. At the very least, to the one in my community.

I went into the store and looked for the book that would tell me which windshield wipers to purchase. I know how to use those books. They will tell you which filters to buy, which tire chains to buy and so I figured, which wipers to buy. 

No, they did not have one. 

So I did what I dreaded doing: I asked for help. So much for a capable woman. 

The gentleman, who I would find out later was the store manager, was happy to look my car up on his computer. He told me I need a 20" and a 16" wiper. I found them on the shelf, I purchased them at the counter and I went outside.

First I had to figure out how to take the old wiper thingie off. Daddy Doc more or less explained what I had to do over the phone and I got it off without breaking anything. But then I had to open the wiper blades.

There are no words on these packages. There are illustrations which apparently humans are supposed to be able to de-code. There were two extra pieces in the package, too. So I took everything apart and opened EVERYTHING up. Oh yes, I did. I was trying to figure out how the extra little pieces were supposed to fit onto the wiper to work for MY particular car.

A couple of men walked up and looked at the wipers and told me that I did not need the extra pieces. But.... but.... there are extra pieces and the pictures show hands putting extra pieces on the wipers. How can this BE? They encouraged me to go into the store and ask them to install the wipers for me. 

But.... but... I am a capable woman! I have a degree from a university. I have given birth three times to giant babies, without epidurals. If I could fix a Hyundai, bloody Hyundai, I can fix a PerkyMommyMobile.

I went back into the store with the old wiper, the new wiper and the packaging and extra pieces. The man at the counter pointed out that the new wiper was considerably smaller than the old wiper and suggested that I had purchased the wrong wiper. He called over the manager, the same one who had told me to buy one 20" and one 16". 

Manager measured the old wiper as 23" and then went out to my car and measured the passenger side wiper as 21". It would seem that the Pep Boys computer was mistaken. But it gets better - there are no 23" wipers. So the manager suggested I buy a 22" wiper because the 24" wiper would be too big.

Ok. Fine. The service person repackaged the 20" blade and extra pieces and they sent me to the checkout stand.

Exchange exchange, pay a little extra for the more expensive, larger wiper, and I went back to the service counter. I told the person checking me out that I hated being so ignorant. I made a joke which could offend a reader or two. Yes, I did. And the clerk (a lovely dark haired young lady,) laughed at it. 

Ok, fine. I said: "I'm not even BLONDE."

I know, some of you hate me now. I'm sorry.

Now, just on a whim, I lined the old wiper up with the new, 22" wiper. Guess what? It was much more than 1" bigger. 

On a hunch, I went back to the wiper department and pulled out a 24" wiper and lined it up with the old wiper. Perfect match.

Back up to the checkout stand. Exchange exchange, no extra money this time, just sign here that we exchanged it. The staff was laughing, and apologizing for the trouble.

Back to the service counter and I said to the young man, "Is it true that if I bat my eyes, someone will install these for me?"

So much for being a capable woman, I just want new wipers on my car.

Someone from the service area was standing next to the counter and said "Absolutely, just pull around to the first bay and someone will meet you there."

I did. The same someone was standing there waiting for me. I hopped out of my car and handed over two new windshield wipers. He very quickly, without even opening the package of extra pieces, snapped the 24" wiper in place. At this point he said "You haven't batted your eyes yet." I laughed and said, "Oh, I'm sorry" and before he could finish saying "I'm just kidding," I batted my eyes, like deeess. Again, if you do not understand the cultural reference point, ask someone who was born after 1980 (which I was not,) or someone who has had children born after the mid-to-late 1980s.

We chatted briefly about how I hate not just being able to quickly do this myself and not feeling like a capable person. I told him that there was a time in my life when I did do things like this myself. He laughed with me and was most pleasant. All along the way, everyone was pleasant, if not mis-informed by computers and measuring tapes.

In no time, I had new wipers on my car. I offered the man a tip which he refused. "It is against policy, I'm not allowed. And I'm the boss so if I take it, I have to turn myself in!"

Now I know, if you need new wiper blades, go to PepBoys and they will do it for you. But find out what size you need before you walk in.