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Betty wouldn't start. She tried, she strained for it. I could feel it in my bones that she really wanted to, but alas, no joy.
I skipped work in the morning and called for a tow assuming that I had a dead battery because, of course, I had filled the tank on Friday and had gone NO WHERE all weekend. Forty-five bucks later, the mechanic is bent over peering into Betty's inner workings. I waited for him to straighten up with a great AHA! to indicate that he had located the problem. Again, no joy.
So, I'm standing there, hovering, asking questions and pointing at various intricate looking parts that I know nothing about. I ask about igniters and starters and the brand new battery (maybeitsalemon). Still, nada.
Finally, the mechanic asks about the gas tank. The gauge, I reply, doesn't work. The float doesn't work, not that it matters because I filled the tank on Friday and I haven't been anywhere. He puts in a gallon and varoom, vroom. Betty a-go-go.
I've never felt so stupid in my entire life. Of course I had forgotten that Cleatus had gotten his license on said Friday and took my car for a drive on Friday and Saturday night. And now every guy I know over the age of thirty comments on how that is such a thing that girls do.
Fuck that! I've been driving for nearly ten years and NEVER have I EVER ran out of gas. The gas light came on in my brother's car only once. So, please, check your gender stereotypes at the door.
And, btw, now I tank up according to the mileage and not the day of the week, admittedly not the best idea ever.
I skipped work in the morning and called for a tow assuming that I had a dead battery because, of course, I had filled the tank on Friday and had gone NO WHERE all weekend. Forty-five bucks later, the mechanic is bent over peering into Betty's inner workings. I waited for him to straighten up with a great AHA! to indicate that he had located the problem. Again, no joy.
So, I'm standing there, hovering, asking questions and pointing at various intricate looking parts that I know nothing about. I ask about igniters and starters and the brand new battery (maybeitsalemon). Still, nada.
Finally, the mechanic asks about the gas tank. The gauge, I reply, doesn't work. The float doesn't work, not that it matters because I filled the tank on Friday and I haven't been anywhere. He puts in a gallon and varoom, vroom. Betty a-go-go.
I've never felt so stupid in my entire life. Of course I had forgotten that Cleatus had gotten his license on said Friday and took my car for a drive on Friday and Saturday night. And now every guy I know over the age of thirty comments on how that is such a thing that girls do.
Fuck that! I've been driving for nearly ten years and NEVER have I EVER ran out of gas. The gas light came on in my brother's car only once. So, please, check your gender stereotypes at the door.
And, btw, now I tank up according to the mileage and not the day of the week, admittedly not the best idea ever.
