I'm not a car girl. I can't point out makes or models save for maybe the DeLorean and the Batmobile. Maybe the one from Knight Rider, but only if David Hasslehoff is standing next to it. I didn't really pay attention in drivers ed., I mostly worried about if the teacher would discover the mouse my friend and I decided to raise in the school and take to class with us. I did learn about the dangers if road rage- don't piss someone off, they might have a crossbow. I recently learned where the windshield wiper fluid goes, but I need to get the damn hood open first. I found this is best done by hunters with a dead deer in the back of their truck in the GetGo parking lot. And I do know that when your car is smoking, it's not because it is being possessed by the smoke monster from Lost. Smokey the Bear is also not helpful in this situation. Apparently the bastard only cares about woodland creatures.
So maybe this is why I virtually devolve into a bumbling bimbo anytime I'm forced to go to a car repair place. No matter how many times I practice the speeches my dad tells me, I still regress into a dialogue used mostly by teenage girls and lobotomy patients. It doesn't even matter if I have a cheat sheet written on my hand. Most car parts are still referred to as "thingys" or whatchamacallits or thingamabobs with a lot of "likes" and "ya knows" thrown in and God forbid it's making a noise. Honestly I just need to fully dedicate myself to the bimbo character I play every time I walk into a mechanics and dress in daisy dukes, a cut off top with hair up in pigtails, lucious, freshly glossed lips sucking on s lollipop while I proceed to wash my car before bringing it in. Oh wait, I went there today in my "I'll be cute at work" dress and flats. That might be just as bad.
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