Car Talk

Here is what I know about cars: they come in different sizes and colors and they get you from point A to point B.

Here is all I want to know about cars: they come in different sizes and colors and they get you from point A to point B.

Here is what the guy at the service station apparently thought I knew about cars: there are actually different makes and models, and they have other working parts besides the heated seats and automatic windows.

As I waited for my car to be inspected last week, I found myself trapped in a very small office with a guy who decided that despite the book in my hand and the ipod buds in my ears, I was just dying to talk about cars.

On my best day, I have to take an educated guess as to my car's model. I know it's a letter of the alphabet, and I'm pretty sure it's up near the front, like a C or an E, but beyond that...it is small and silver and gets me from point A to point B.

Expecting me to be able to look out at the ten or so cars in the side lot and know which one was the Ford was like asking a vegetarian to identify the skirt steak at the butcher's counter. Not going to happen.

Nodding vaguely in what I hoped was the right general direction, I tried to fob him off with a muttered, "uh, yeah", and buried my nose in my book again.

Now, I either sounded a lot more interested than I thought, or he was a lot more bored than he thought because instead of taking the major hint I was throwing out, he then moved on to the topics of motor oil and tire expiration dates.

Oh, goody. Two other things I know shockingly little about.

Giving up on the book altogether and wondering exactly what the fine would be for having an expired inspection sticker, I dredged around the dim recesses of my mind for something, anything I could contribute to this one-sided conversation beyond, "Look, I just need that little sticker thingy put in my window that says '09."

Just before I would have had to fess up and confirm what I'm sure was his secret conviction that women (especially blondes) know nothing about cars, inspiration struck. I suddenly remembered Thanksgiving of '07 when we had two flats on our way back from Pennsylvania.

Quickly rewriting one of the scenes from Grand Torino I simply leaned back in my chair, propped one foot over the opposite knee and related the horror story, ending with, "Yeah, those car dealers really try to rip you off."

It was like saying "Abracadabra" and "Bibitibobitiboo" all at once.

By the time he finished his tirade against the dealers, the manufacturers and the quick change oil places, my car had the new little '09 sticker thingy in the window and I was out of there.

Thank you, Clint Eastwood.