Today’s main points: 1. Automotive repair is a frustrating business. 2. I have the best father of all time.
Benji … you remember Benji? My sweet little car? … well, he needs new brakes. I can hear the noise in the back when I’m pressing the brake, and I’m at least smart enough to know what this means. I’m telling my friend Joe, a true and self-named gearhead who recently rebuilt an entire GTO, about how Benji needs new rear brakes. He says, with his typical car-enthusiasm, You know what? Replacing brakes is easy. You could totally do it. Get your dad to help you, and you can learn about your car and save a lot of money.
See how he hit all my sweet spots? It’s kind of genius. First, I’m immediately flattered by his confidence in me. This, I now realize, was not confidence in me, but in the simplicity of the job. Like a toddler, I took it as praise and barreled on. The second brilliant thing he did here was appeal to my sense of feminism. The idea of being that girl who knows nothing about her car is abhorrent to me. Replace my own brakes? Hell yeah. I can do that. OBVIOUSLY. And finally, the save a lot of money thing is pretty critical in my world, so basically, you’ve got the perfect package. I’m all over it.
Daddy, for the record, exhibited a cautious willingness to help. He likes the idea of me being automaotively self-sufficent, especially since I’m on the road alone most of the time. He was not quite so confident about this brakes-will-be-a-breeze scenario.
And people, the one lesson I have learned as an adult is that DAMMIT, my parents are ALWAYS RIGHT. Always. As long as we don’t talk politics.
And so, my friends, Daddy set off today on a quest to find the enigmatic piston cube:
Good luck, Daddy. May the force be with you.