The savvy ladies' guide to making your car go vroom

The last time I brought White Lightning into the car service place, the man popped her hood, cleared the leaves and parking tickets out of the way to get a closer look at the gross parts, and yelled at me because somehow he could tell that I don't bring my car in as often as I should.

Man: You have NO oil. I'm surprised your car hasn't exploded. Wasn't your oil light on?

Me: Well, yeah, but ALL my lights are on. The magic genie bottle light, and the bright idea light, and exclamation mark, and there's one that looks like hot toast, and one that looks like Lee Iacocca crying... I can't believe EVERYTHING my car tells me, you know. She's kind of like the car who cried wolf.

Man: When was the last time you serviced this car?

Me: Um, a few months ago? They vacuumed the whole thing, put a little hangy banana on the rear view win...

Man: No. Serviced, as in maintenance.

Me: Serviced, yes. Spic and span. Maintained. Got the footprints off the windshield even. The plucked eyebrow hairs off the vanity mirror. The works. Yep.

Man: Everything under the hood is a mess. I can't believe what I'm seeing. This is just careless and I don't have time...

Me: Hey, is that a tank of Gatorade in there?

Man: What? No. That's antifreeze.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure that's Gatorade. Right there across from the slide projector, see?

Man: Does that make sense to you? A slide projector under the hood?

Me: Well, whatever. I don't know, man, pipes and tanks everywhere. Looks like a fucking Decepticon took a crap under the hood. I don't want any part of it. Just fix it.

Man: Ok, well, go to the service desk and fill out the forms in triplicate, and I'll...

Me: GAH! Boring!! Sorry, I zoned out for a sec. Go to the what? The...sandwich...duck? And fill out deformed tickletits?

Man: Listen to me. Go to the service...

Me: Boring!!

Man: Go to the...

Me: BORED!

Man: G...

Me: No! *squirt bottle* No!

White Lightning never got her tune-up. So when my friend Ani and I packed up the car this weekend to head off to the beach and White Lightning didn't start when I turned the key, I wasn't too surprised.

Me: Don't worry, I got this. *dials phone*

Ani: Nope, gimme the phone. Remember we talked about when it's okay to call 911 and when it's NOT okay to call 911? Remember? Medical emergency, yes...

Me: ...Injured hummingbird, no.

Ani: Home intruder?

Me: Yes.

Ani: Shredded the roof of your mouth eating Oh!s cereal?

Me: Maybe? If it like, REALLY fucked up your mouth? No? Ok, fine, no.

Ani: I'll pop the hood and find some jumper cables, you look for your car's instruction book.

Me: Kay. Probably in the glove box.

Ani: You find it?

Me: Nope! Still going through my papers in here, let's see...registration...insurance...

Me: Triple A card, maps, official vehicular documents...

Ani: You got it yet?

Me: Almost, yeah. I think I found it... lots of documents in here... s'where I keep my files, my paperwork...

Ani: Lemme help, I'll come help you find it.

Me: NO! Don't look. I mean, you just do your job and I'll do mine. I'm fine here, it's all very organized.

This is not counting the ticket I had to use as

an emergency panty liner on my last road trip.

Me: Hey, um, you know what? Screw it. We don't need that book. It's just jumper cables, easy peasy. Connect em up, clip em on to the things. Be careful though, there's something you need to remember. I think the rule goes something like, red touches black, get back jack. Red touches yellow, kill a fellow.

Ani: Great, these cables don't even have a yellow one. Just red and black.

Me: Red touches red, you be dead.

Ani: So... nothing can touch anything, is what you're saying?

Me: Black touches black, freak attack. Touch the wrong node, car explode.

Ani: I don't want any of those things to happen.

Me: Just hook those two up to your battery, and then gimme a sec because I need to hide behind the garage real quick, and then hook the other clamps to my battery. Just don't touch the clamps to each oth...

Ani: *FTTT!!* WAAAK! SPARKY!!

Me: WhatdidIjustsay! What. did. I. just. say.

Ani: Well YOU do it then!!

Me: I'm all the way over here, that doesn't make sense. You.

Ani: Fine...okay... let's see... aclippy here, and aclippy there, and I did it! All hooked up!!

Me: ...*happy clap!*...

Ani: ...*champion arms!*...

Me: Aw, look. It's cute.

Ani: What?

Me: Our cars! They're like best friends!

Ani: Oh! They are! The cables look like a friendship bracelet!

Me: SO CUTE!!

Ani: We should just drive like this, hooked up with cables, side by side, all the way to the beach.

Me: Yeah, it makes me sad to split them up now.

Ani: *wistful sigh*

Me: *contemplative melancholy head tilt*

Me: Do you think it's done transferring energy?

Ani: I think it works better if we start both the cars.

Chimp date. Also known as the time I stayed up super-late plucking my eyebrows just so they would look pretty through the eyeholes in a gas mask.

Dear Sir:

Listen. I'm not usually one to complain. I understand that things don't always turn out the way we expect them to, and that sometimes we just have to roll with the punches and move on. I want to move on, I really do. But I would be remiss if I didn't express my disappointment regarding our recent encounter. I don't know about you, sir, but when someone describes the baby chimp with whom I have a scheduled playdate as "charming" and "well-behaved," I expect my goddamned baby chimp playdate to be charming and well-behaved. Is that unrealistic of me? I don't know. You tell me.

Ok. Maybe put yourself in my shoes for a second. Say Christmas is approaching, and your friends and family are asking you what kind of gift you would like, and you're thinking, "Jesus Christ, what version of gift-herpes are they gonna come up with this year? I wish these people would take their Bath and Bodyworks candles and their Mary Engelbreit calendars and just go fuck themselves."

But because you are such a good person, you don't say any of that out loud. Instead you say "Oh, I really don't want anything," which you say with a slight air of passive aggressive resentment, because everyone knows full well that all you've ever wanted for Christmas was for somebody to learn the guy part of "Baby It's Cold Outside," so that once, just once, you might have a duet by the fire one cozy Christmas Eve, instead of it being just you, alone and drunk with a stupid sock on your hand who has no idea how to do that overlapping lyrics thing and sounds nothing at all like Louis Armstrong.

And you're hoping, at the very least, that none of your friends gives you photos of their kids set in a frame whose longest side is greater than the cross-diameter of your trash can, and you're already planning your annual December 26th Bath and Bodyworks scented candlelight vigil to commemorate the rest of the Bath and Bodyworks candles that you're burning in a bonfire ten feet away from the vigil, and wondering if this year will be the year that your family finally understands that your post-9/11 freak-out ended years ago and that you are no longer in need of any "defense against biochemical attack" themed gifts...

This is why they invented self-timer.

...particularly a gas mask in child's size small from your mom, because she really wants grandkids but "No pressure!!" she says. Right mom. No pressure. *eye roll*

But suddenly, you are inspired. You realize what it is that you want, what you've always wanted and were unable up until this very moment to articulate.

Me: I want a playdate with a chimp.

Mom: A playdate?

Me: Yes. With a chimpanzee.

Sister: Becky, that's ridiculous.

Me: Really? Ridiculous? Have you seen Jack's list? He wants an armored bear costume for his dog so they can play Golden Compass in the back yard, for Christ's sake.

Mom: Well. That's just silly. He's not getting a Golden Compass armored bear suit for the dog. That would truly be ridiculous.

Iorek Byrnison, ladies and gentlemen.

Mom: Alright, besides a date with a chimp, what would you like for Christmas? How about some more Ciprofloxacin? Maybe if you're a good girl Santa will bring you Cipro, huh?

Me: You guys, Cipro's nice and all, and it's true what they say, you can never have enough Ciprofloxacin, but... see, I've tried to explain this to you before, it's just that surviving an Anthrax attack just isn't as important to me as it once was.

Sister: Okay, yeah, I get that. People change. Priorities change. You grow.

Me: Exactly. Protecting myself from biochemical warfare just... I don't know... I guess I'm just over it, and don't get me wrong, hoarding antibiotics will always hold a special place in my heart, but a girl gets to a point in her life where she's like, enough. Enough with the antibiotics, and the blow darts, and the propane-fueled generators. This Christmas, I just want a hug from a hairy little primate.

Mom: Ooohhhh, sounds like someone's feeling maternal!!!

Me: Suck my dick, mom.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Santa didn't hear you tell your mom to suck your dick.

Me: Santa can take my load all over his fat old man tits.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Jesus didn't hear you tell Santa to take your load all over his...

Sister: Yeah, anyway, so the chimp thing. I really think we can make it happen.

And they do. Are you still with me, sir? It just so happens that somebody knows somebody who trains chimps for commercials. And your Christmas wish comes true.

Now, let's back up a little. This is not your first chimp experience. You know what to expect. Years earlier, you had met a baby chimp.

She had held you by the hand and walked with you, climbed into your arms and hugged you around your neck, unzipped her purse to show you the contents (chapstick), applied it to her lips, applied it to your lips (no thank you), applied it to her lips again, and back to yours (no thanks I'm good), tried once more (well okay *puckers up*) and by the time you said goodbye you wanted to carry her everywhere and buy her a whole carton of chapstick for her sad empty purse and make her your baby and your best friend all at once, kind of like the way you feel now about Kurt from Glee.

And now, years later, you get your very own chimp playdate, and you're bursting with anticipation.

The morning finally arrives, and the doorbell rings. You've waited so long for another chimp hug. Those extra-long hairy arms draped around your neck, those tiny legs resting comfortably on your hips. Those agile, almost prehensile lips reaching out for a kiss.

You open the front door and reach your arms out. Come to me, my new chimp baby-friend. I will love you with everything I have to give, unconditionally and with abandon!

But from the moment you open the door, you know something's different. You think back to your old pal from years ago...

...and compare her to this new chimp friend. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you have excellent intuition and there's something unnerving about the expression on his face.

You can't see his other hand because he's taking a crap in it.

Hmm. Let's compare.

This chimp doesn't so much wear his diaper as he does rip it off and dip his hands into his own shit and proceed to cop a feel on every woman and fat man in the room. It's pretty hard to deny having just been felt up by a chimp when you're wearing his shit handprints on your boobs.

This chimp doesn't so much wrap you in a warm primate embrace as he does climb to the tops of bookshelves and perch on curtain rods and then dive-bomb onto the heads of passersby, attacking...

-Nana as she rolls by in her wheelchair: Ooof! Mercy me, be careful, little boy!

-Nana's Nigerian Nurse: Dat monkeh has de devil een hees haht! You stay ay-way from me, demon creachuh!!

-8 year-old nephew: He's trying to steal my eyeballs! Get him off my face!! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!!

-Sister: Oh my god, he's got my ponytail. Let go my ponytail, GOD why are is this chimp such a DICK!!

-Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I ay-gree. Dees monkeh is a toe-tal esshole.

Now, am I being unreasonable here? I don't know about you, sir, but where I come from, baby chimps carry purses and share their chapstick and keep their diapers fastened. They don't dip their shitstained fingers into people's iced blended mochas and they don't try to eat people's Nanas' wheelchair seat cushions and they don't try to strangle people's Nanas' Nigerian nurses by their braided leather bolo necklaces. It's positively animalistic and I won't stand for it.

You'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Good day sir.

In which my mom brings it like an animal

Me: What the hell is going on in there?

Jack: That's mom. She's doing your P90X workout DVDs in the next room.

Me: Holy shit! Is she okay?

Jack: I know. It sounds like a cat in a room full of tall lamps.

(From behind the door, CRASH!)

Mom: I'm okay! It was the chair! The chair fell over!

Jack: She keeps kicking the chairs over. She won't wear her glasses while she's exercising, is the problem. I went in there to check on her and she kicked me in the hamstring.

Me: What's that swooshing noise?

Jack: That? Why, funny you should ask. That...is a hula hoop.

Me: Um... There's no hula hoop in P90X.

Jack: Yes I know. She's made some interesting substitutions.

(From behind the closed door, the sound of hula hoop skidding across the wood floor)

Mom: Whoop! Yikes!

(Bare feet plod plod plodding across the floor, hula hoop is recovered, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh resumes)

P90X guy: Yes! You are an animal! When I said BRING IT, you BROUGHT IT! And you made it YOUR BITCH!

Mom: Wooo!! YEA!! *whoosh, whoosh, whoosh*

Me: Well, hula hoop is good for your abs anyhow... strengthens your... core...

Jack: *shaking head*

Me: What? No?

Jack: *sigh*

Me: She's hula hooping around her neck again, isn't she? She's gonna crush her trachea, I swear.

Jack: It's the only way she can keep the hoop up.

Me: So... when the P90X gang starts in with the pull ups, you're telling me mom participates by spinning a hula hoop on her NECK? Does this make any sense to you?

Jack: She changes it up, though. Like when they do deep lunge kicks she does the "She's a Maniac" run in place thing from Flashdance instead. And when they start doing those pike sit-ups, she sings "Louie Louie" and does that hitchhiker thumbs-over-the-shoulder move. And sometimes when she gets confused she just shrugs and does that dance from the 20's where you put your hands on your knees and then touch your knees together and send your hands off to the opposite knees.

Me: Oh, yeah, that's a classic. You know what? We should make her a new workout DVD. We can be all YEAH, YOU ANIMAL! GRRR!! WORK IT! MAKE THE CHARLESTON YOUR BITCH!

Jack: Heh. YEAH, DIVAS! WE'RE GONNA PAUSE HERE AND GIVE YOU 30 SECONDS TO GO FIND YOUR GLASSES, BECAUSE WE'RE ABOUT TO DEMONSTRATE A BRAND NEW MOVE CALLED WAGGLING YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR TO BIG BAND MUSIC!

Me: ALRIGHT YOU ANIMALS, YOU'RE GONNA PUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT LEG IN, AND THEN YOU'RE GONNA PUT IT RIGHT BACK OUT, LIKE THE DIVA THAT YOU ARE!! 20 REPS, IN AND OUT, GOGOGOGOGO!!!

Jack: HAHAHA!!

Me: Heehee! Oh, we should stop. We're mean.

Jack: We are. She's 65 and she's doing most of P90x for God's sake. That's pretty cool.

(From behind the door, hula hoop skitters across the floor and crashes)

Mom: YOW! Oof! Dang butterfingers!!

Jack: You did P90X a while ago, right?

Me: Pff. Yeah, for maybe a week. I got bored.

Jack: It's repetitive, huh.

Me: Same thing over and over.

Jack: Yeah, I don't know how she keeps up with it.

(The door to the next room opens and mom peeks through.)

Mom: Hey guys, could one of you grab the blue painter's tape for me?

Me: Painter's tape?

Jack: Ab Ripper X.

Me: ...??...

Jack: You know... for the hopscotch part.