OCR Text |
Show JUST STUFF by jan y I am by no means your dizzy, dainty, demure dame. I tend to have that competitive spirit of "anything you can do, I can do too!", especially when it comes to my male counterparts. I remember as a child, when all the neighborhood girls were playing dollies and drcssup I was playing Hot Wheels and Army. When the girls were playing house and baking mud pies, I was climbing trees and having clod fights. I had the best collection of GI Joe stuff and Apollo Command Equipment on the block. While the little girls were collecting treasures and trinkets, I was collecting bugs and baseball cards. I've always been a Tom Boy at ' heart. ' And it's stuck. I drive a pretty . mean snowmobile and can tear my motorcycle apart and put it back ! together with no parts to spare. I can ! hold my own when it comes to mannin' the oars on a raft running the white water, and I keep up with the boys when it comes to demolition ; derbies. ; Now, don't get me wrong. I'm darn proud to be a woman and can be just as ladylike as the next, but feathers and frills, dresses and heels just don't hold a candle to faded . levis and worn out sweatshirts. Priding myself on being able to : "cut it"in a man's world, I found it disconcerting when I had to ask for . help at the gas station. ' Now?a gas station itself is in no way intimidating. After 16, filling a car, even for a female, becomes second nature. Well, I pulled into the station, piled out of the car, still in my nice dress from work, nabbed the nasty nozzle, nudged it in the tank and, filled 'er up. Then I got thinking I'd better check the oil. Sure enough, I was down a quarter, so I slipped the dip stick back in it's slot and reached for the cap. It seemed to be a little tight. I twisted it; I turned it; I wiped it off, and twisted and turned some more it was all to no avial. It was down right stuck. After several minutes of humming and hawing, cranking and cursing, I gave in, humbled myself and asked for some help from the masculine mechanics. There were a few guys working in the garage, and they all looked up when I walked in. "Can I help you, ma'am?" one of them asked. Embarrassed, and feeling the frustrated, fragile, foolish female I said "I can't get my oil cap off. Would one of you gentlemen come and do it." Naturally they all kind of looked at each other, and at me, with a sort of "She probably doesn't even know where the oil goes" looks. One of them said "Sure, lady, I'll give you a hand," as he put down the distributor he was working on. We walked out to my car and he said, with a big grin on his face, as he wiped the grimy grease off his hands, "So, the caps on a little bit tight, huh? " then he sort of chuckled to himself and said "Nothing I can't handle in just a jiffy." I was doing all I could to remain dainty and demure and not tell him exactly what I thought! And the thing that really raced my motor was I knew he was probably right. He'd giye the cap one quick twist, and off 'she'd pop. Luckly, I was wrong. I guess all is fair in the battle of the sexes He gave it the little twist and nothing happened. He gave it a couple of real hard twists Still nothing happened. Much to my pleasure, and his chagrin, Mr. Muscle finally had to get out a pair of channel locks to conquer the obstinate cap. As I drove off in the sunset and my mighty mechanic slouched his way back to the teases of his cohorts, I had the last lady-like laugh. |