I’ve always been into cars. Even as a little girl, I was much more Malibu Grand Prix, than Malibu Barbie. I collected Matchbox, played gas station and loved going to car shows with my step-father. I could not wait to learn how to drive. Four year old me had a complex fantasy that involved my mother passing out at the wheel, and me having to leap from the back seat to heroically steer the car to safety. Almost one month to the day, after turning sixteen, I had my provisional license in hand, and shortly thereafter, the ‘71 Nova that would be my first true love. Since then, I’ve had at least a dozen different rides, the highlights of which were a ‘66 Mustang Coupe and an ‘86 Saab 900 Turbo. But my love for the automobile has been quite unrequited. I’ve had terrible luck with each and every one. It’s not that I’m a bad driver. Aside from a fairly hellish accident I caused when I was seventeen (swerving in a moment of panicked indecision between exit lanes on the New Jersey Turnpike, returning from the Monsters of Rock show at the Meadowlands Coliseum), my record’s been clean in the collision department. I simply have a knack for picking lemons and dastardly mechanics, no doubt due to the fact that I never did learn the first thing about how cars actually work beyond the basic physics of combustion.

I have not been willfully ignorant of my various vehicles’ crapped-out inner workings. I am convinced there was a concerted conspiracy afoot to prevent me from taking any of the many quarters of Auto Shop I diligently signed up for every year in high school. If the class wasn’t canceled outright after my name showed up on the roster, then it was moved to conflict with some kind of Advanced Placement Neo Slavic Poetry or History of Basket Weaving that I was compelled by parents and guidance counselors to enroll in, instead. Even when I tried to take the same course on the community collegiate level, I was still thwarted in my every effort to secure some actually useful higher knowledge. So, I finally gave up, and turned my attention to dating men with mechanical skills, with some success. However, that well having run dry far too long ago, I have been sublimating my otherwise unspent carnal energy into a self-taught basic auto care and maintenance 101.

My current chariot is an ‘85 Honda Civic. It’s the only car I’ve owned that I truly loathe. Because I hate it so much, I feel little compunction against trying to work on it. I was too afraid of hurting my ‘babies’ of the past to experiment on them, but I can’t even anthropomorphize the Honda enough to give it a proper name (I refer to it unlovingly as only “The Shitbox”). If I wasn’t committed to breaking the cycle of dragging my heap into a shop for every little thing it needs, I wouldn’t bother fixing anything on it at all. But I’m sick of being every mechanic’s dream mark. I can see visions of their kid’s tuition and/or a couple of eightballs at the end of the week, dancing in their heads, when I hand them my keys and my credit card, shrugging my shoulders and saying only that “I think I heard something crack”.

So, I invested in my future. I picked up a Chilton’s manual, a tool box complete with my very own socket set, and a vat of the all important Goop (although girlie me still tries to wear Playtex gloves most of the time, lest I sacrifice a precious fingernail to this undertaking). I’ve done my damnedest to ingratiate myself with the boys at the local U-Pull-It, which has been no small task in itself, as they initially were none too eager to do anything more than just point to the line of crumpled Shitboxes on the far side of the lot and send me on my way. But even the grizzled uber-curmudgeon at the front counter (he’s one of those six foot by six foot behemoths who seems intent on intimidating into quaking silence everyone who crosses his path, and who is probably either the proverbial teddy bear, or serial killer, on the inside) has come so far as to gruff out some useful advice to me, now that I’ve become a regular. More helpful by far has been Julio, one of the house mechanics, who seems to miraculously materialize beside me just as I am passing the point of utter exasperation when my prized part will not be pried loose by my best efforts to extricate it on my own. Despite a formidable language barrier, he’s still been able to school me on some key points. (That I was forced into French, instead of Spanish, leads me to doubly curse the parents and guidance counselors for their lack of foresight in planning my education.)

I haven’t tackled anything too complex, so far. I don’t have a garage, so I’m limited to stuff that’s do-able street side. But I have successfully installed and balanced new headlights, replaced the “door glass regulator assembly” (i.e. the crank that lets me litter cigarette butts all over the beautiful state of Oregon), performed a couple of tune-ups, and changed some belts and hoses, that sort of thing. My triumph has been enabling The Shitbox to finally pass the emissions test, which it consistently failed due to being high on THC and nitrous oxide (which I initially thought was due to a contact high with its driver). I wish I could get the tags bronzed and wear them like medals around my neck, I’m so proud!

Besides saving me some money, this do-it-yourself thing has done wonders for my self-esteem. For one thing, I no longer feel like a complete chump when I do have to take The Shitbox in for professional care. Plus, I’ve noticed that the eau de oil is an apparently potent pheromone, much more seductive than any perfume. The boys come a’ flocking whenever they spy me with my head under the hood. Nice to know there’s so many cute, easily impressed guys, right on my very block. Forget the fuck-me shoes, that socket set could turn out to be my favorite fall accessory. It’s chic, it’s black, it could double as a clutch... Now, if only I could find a matching pair of coveralls.