Grease Chicks (part 1)

Wondering who I am? I’m Merit Badge Awardee Jane (MBA Jane for short). In my former life

I’m pretty excited about my new badge earnings today, girls. By the time I’m done, I will officially be a grease chick. That’s right, I’m breaking into boy territory here: cars. Up until now, all I knew about cars was how to look good driving one. (If there’s a merit badge for that, I’ll look like an over-achieving Girl Scout.) But no, today is not about driving my convertible; it’s about getting down and dirty with it.

I started out small–filling up the gas tank instead of sweet-talking Cute Boy working at the fuel station. That was easy-peasy, lemon-squeasy, so I thought I’d take the plunge and check the oil. Popping the hood took me forever, but I finally found the secret lever. Sheesh, you’d think my car was designed for a super spy or something. The next time I buy an automobile, I’ll have to ask about things besides the number of cup holders and the capacity of the CD changer.

Anyhow, I popped the hood like I’d been doing it all my life and moseyed up front to take a look inside.

It looked like an elaborate bomb or a steel city or something. Talk about complicated. Seems like there’s way more stuff than a plain ole car would ever need–next time I’m totally buying Amish. They know how to keep cars simple.

Eventually, I found the right spot and unscrewed the cap. I was a little worried about hot scalding steam escaping or something, but I think I looked pretty nonchalant, and dare I say, knowledgeable. Cute Boy seemed pretty darn impressed, especially when I casually mentioned needing to fill up the signal fluid. I tucked my hair into a trucker’s cap–bought especially for this purpose–and checked the oil on the dipstick. (Not the one I used to date.)

While there, I checked all the other fluids. (Man, who knew cars needed so much juice to run?) I added some windshield-wiper soap and coolant and power steering fluid. This was starting to cost me a fortune, and I hadn’t even paid for my gas yet. I ended up walking around my car staring intently at the tires. I was looking to see if they were properly inflated, of course, so I kicked them once or twice and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I ended up stubbing my toe, which really cheesed me off royally, and I yelled “WTH?” which got Cute Boy’s attention. (I always cuss in text speak because I find it more sophisticated and mature.) TMI (too much integrity), right? Sometimes, I’m LMFAO (laughing my fantastic apron off). I’ll see if Cute Boy is FTW (for the wine). But maybe it’ll be TTYLG (talk to you later, gater). IDK (I don’t know). What’s shaking? Ooops, POS (parents over shoulder). At this point, I’m BAMF (barely able, motivation failing). All okay again, SNAFU (situation normal, all fixed up)


But anyway, no thanks to Cute Boy, I did it. And I LOOKED GR8. G2G (good to go).

W-E (whatever).

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