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The Goddess Speaks Genevieve A. Suzuki |
A blinker on the blink
leads to a day of despairLast week, I rued being a woman. For a moment, I would have traded my Barbie doll past for G.I. Joe. Given up my lip gloss for a mustache -- not that I don't have one anyway -- and gladly turned in my Venus razor.
Last week, I realized I knew as much about my car as I do about the Denver Broncos' current-season roster. As I drove home from Starbucks, I flipped on my left blinker to signal a turn. Instead of a nice blink-blink-blink, I got a turbo-charged blinkblinkblink. Turning off the blinker, I called my husband, Derek, and told him something was wrong.
"Just turn it off and then turn it on again," he suggested. "It does that sometimes."
I did as I was told and again received blinkblinkblink.
"Must be the bulb. Just come home and I'll fix it," he said.
Famous last words. Then I noticed in the reflection of the SUV in front of me that the blinker wasn't working at all.
Scary thoughts ran through my mind. I could get a citation. I could get the evil eye from other drivers. I could get into an accident because no one would know I intended to turn left. I was gonna die without my left blinker!
When I arrived home, my hubby was asleep and drooling.
"Hey, wake up. You gotta fix my blinker," I said.
"Wha--? Hrm, I'll fix it tomorrow. Just drive my car instead."
I WOKE UP after a sleepless night of blinkblinkblink nightmares. "I'll just take the car today," I told Derek.
"OK, bye."
OK, bye? That's it? No "I'll fix it, dear!" No heroic efforts? Fine, I thought, I'll fix it myself. So I drove to an auto parts store where I was unlucky enough to meet Mr. Screw, so dubbed because he proceeded to do exactly that to my morning. Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I am a delicate flower. Yes, I didn't know how to open my car's hood.
Mr. Screw walked slowly to my Toyota Corolla. "You gotta open the hood."
"Oh, but can't I just pop the plastic thing off to get to the bulb?"
"You gotta open the hood."
I hadda open the hood.
Popping the hood was no problem. Opening it was another story. Mr. Screw stood for what felt like a lifetime watching me struggle with a nonexistent latch. Finally, he took over.
We stood looking at the left headlight. "You gotta use a screwdriver."
"A screwdriver? Can't I just pop the plastic thing off to get to the bulb?"
"You gotta use a screwdriver."
Service with a smile you ain't, I thought. So I trudged back into the store and watched him walk away, thinking that maybe I was being hasty in my judgment and that Mr. Screw would be a kind soul and come back with a screwdriver.
No such luck. I waited for a while before realizing he was through with me and my blinkblinkblink.
No problem, I thought. I'm a woman of the millennium! I will buy the screwdriver and the lamp, and fix it myself!
Empowerment can sometimes be a bad idea.
"We don't have the lamp you need," apologized the clerk at the counter. "Try Wal-Mart."
I took my screwdriver and went to Wal-Mart, where I found the lamp. I popped and opened the hood -- I learn fast -- then quickly learned that I needed a much smaller screwdriver. I drove back to the store and exchanged the screwdriver for a smaller model.
While I was waiting, Mr. Screw bullied a tall man about his car problems.
"You can't clean it yourself," Mr. Screw was saying. "You gotta get it professionally done."
"But the car only cost me $300," the 6-foot-something man said apologetically to Mr. Screw, who was half his size.
"You gotta get it professionally done."
It was gratifying to hear a big, tall, muscular man having the same problem as me.
He just hadda do it.
Finally, I returned to my car and unscrewed the thingamajig on the right and -- for five minutes -- panted, gasped and strained as I tried to pry the plastic plate off. After releasing a string of cuss words that would anger my mom, I flagged some random guy to ask for help. "Do you know how to do this?" I asked.
He said he could try and then, after a minute of panting, gasping and straining, decided he couldn't. "Sorry," he said, getting into his truck and speeding away.
I was defeated. I waved the greasy white flag and drove to Goodyear Auto Service in Mililani Center. Approaching the counter, I cursed my gender. If I were a man, I would have known how to fix the blinkblinkblink. I would have been able to pry off the plastic plate and replace the bulb.
The Goodyear man turned out to be the kind soul for whom I had searched. He came out to my car and I showed him how I learned to pop and open the hood and unscrew the thingamajig. He then helped me pry the plastic off and ordered me to test the lights.
Blink-blink-blink.
"Looks like it's working now," he said.
"But I didn't change the lamp," I said.
"Lemme try again."
The blink-blink-blink mocked me once more.
"Nope, it's working," he said, replacing the plastic plate.
I asked him how much I owed him for his time, and he shook his head. "That's OK, no problem," he said.
And then he said something that made me proud to be who I was -- not man woman, but human: "Your directional lights are below the headlights. We removed the parking light case."
Turns out Mr. Screw didn't know half as much as he thought, and that men can be clueless when it comes to fixing blinkers.
Guess it was a lesson I hadda learn.
Genevieve A. Suzuki is a Honolulu-based freelance writer.
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