Aw, jeez. The oil light in the car was on. So I pulled the lever that popped the hood, and I opened it and propped it up with that little stick-thing – see, I’m not totally helpless. But that’s about as far as I got. Ignatz had to find the dip stick for me. Then there was no mark showing how much oil should be in there, though there was a notch to show how low is too low. The oil mark was right at the notch. That will be important later.
I found the oil in the garage, too! I’m so good! Um. Gee, there’s a lot of tanky-looking … things where you might put motor oil. I do know that putting the oil in the wrong hole would be bad. So I tiptoed over to Mrs Next Door, who was in her back yard with a lot of big, manly men (okay, two big manly men, Mr Next Door and another guy) and asked her if she happened to know where to put the oil, and she said “I know for MY car…” Which, let me hasten to mention, I knew too, for our last car. AND the one before that. But this one … well, I haven’t gotten around to learning that. (In two years.) So before I could stop her she scampered over to the manly-man who was not her husband, who oh joy happens to be a mechanic – exactly the sort you want to flaunt your incompetence at – and asked him to help me.
Worst of all. After he’d shown me which cap to unscrew, he checked the dip stick and said “you don’t need oil. See that notch there? That shows how much oil there should be, and you’re fine.”
So. I went all helpless and girly and ruffled and pink FOR NOTHING!
Bad feminist! Bad! No chocolate!
edit: Avatar changed to reflect my new status as Girly-Belle McFluffie.