I had to take my Jeep in for servicing last week, and the technician greeted me right away. “And what’s the problem with the vehicle?”
“There is a light on inside the plastic shield that covers the dial thingy.”
My husband rolled his eyes, but he didn’t help me. He enjoys watching me flounder about in strange waters. This aspect of his personality has always disturbed me.
The technician spoke Womanese. “Yes ma’am. You mean the dashboard. And what does the light say?”
“It doesn’t say anything. And you don’t have to call me ma’am. I’m only 44.”
He smiled patiently, the way someone would look at his oldest relative who calls him Colonel and asks him about the war.
My hubbie turned into Tony from “Seinfeld.”
“It’s her fault. She has no respect for her car. She rides it too hard. She goes over potholes. She drives through ocean flood water. She doesn’t slow down for speed bumps.” He crossed his arms across his chest as if had made a salient point.
“Rides it too hard?” I screeched. “It’s a Jeep! It’s trail-rated, it says it right on the side door panel! The Jeep commercial shows a guy riding down the side of the Grand Canyon, jumping over trapped donkeys! Are you telling me that a few speed bumps and a puddle can break down the Official Yellowstone National Park Rescue Vehicle?”
My husband just raised his eyebrows in commiseration with the counter guy, as if to say, “See, what’d I tell you? Hysterical woman alert!”
I complained on the way home.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I call them the way I see them. You have no respect for electronics or anything mechanical.”
“Hah!” I said. “Name one.”
“Your cracked iPhone.”
“That doesn’t count. I dropped it. How is that my fault? Name another.”
“Your work copier. I get emails from the Xerox company, begging me to explain to you that you can’t slam the trays.”
I spoke slowly, and took on his patronizing tone. “I don’t slam the trays, dear. I load paper into the trays, there’s a difference. Just because my code comes up as the job before the machine broke down doesn’t mean…”
“Yes, it does,” he drawled. His superior tone was getting to me.
“Well, those are two lame examples. What else you got?”
“The washing machine and dryer. The dishwasher. The garbage disposal. The refrigerator.”
“What?” Now I was incensed. “How are the shoddy products of General Electric my fault?”
“You overstuff the washing machine. You don’t clean the lint trap of the dryer. You grind up cantaloupe rinds and forks in the garbage disposal. And you put too many dirty dishes into the dishwasher.”
That was the last straw.
“Hold on,” I said. “If only a certain amount of dishes can be loaded into the dishwasher, why do they build them with so many racks? And why did we spend all that money on a dishwasher if I have to wash them by hand first? And if the washing machine can’t be fully loaded, why do they make it that big? False advertisement is what it is. Like those dresses in Macy’s that look good on the hanger, but then won’t go over your ankles.”
“How about the microwave?”
I was silent. He was hitting below the belt. We had sworn over mojitos in a corner booth in Tijuana to never mention the microwave again.
“How could you? How could you mention the microwave?” I wept quietly.
“I’m sorry. But Dave couldn’t believe the state of the microwave. It’s an expensive product. When an alarm flashes a hundred times, warning you to ‘Check Filter,’ you listen. Why didn’t you listen?”
I wiped my face with my sleeve. “I thought it was a suggestion, you know, like a speed limit, or a yellow light. It never said ‘Change filter.’ It was a suggestion for improvement, like an infomercial. Who’s Dave?”
“Uh, the GE guy? We’ve gotten close over the last year. He and his wife Kristy are having a housewarming party. And oh, you’re invited to her baby shower.”
I wondered what to get her. Maybe some diapers.
They don’t take batteries.
You can fill them up.
You can put dirty stuff in them.
They don’t need to be plugged in.
If you drop them, they don’t break.
Perfect.