Extreme Elimination Challenge: Car Repair Addition

I have, as you may recall, mentioned my issues with my car before. To make a long story short, there is something wrong with it. The check engine light has been on on for, oh, about three years. It runs fine for a car that has 108,000+ miles and has always received absolutely indifferent maintenance. The engine is still fucking there, so whatever is wrong cannot, to my mind, be that goddamn important.

Unfortunately, though, I live in area that requires car emissions tests. Check engine light=fail. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I made a good faith effort to try to cheat, but alas, it's not as easy as it used to be and I was unable to procure a crooked mechanic who would pass me for $50 cash and a photo of my boobs.

I was not for a moment naive enough to believe that this problem could actually be fixed. Two years ago I pissed about $600 into a hole before some clever lad worked out a cheat that got me through the test (a cheat I was unable to duplicate this time, god knows I tried). Instead I faced the problem head on.

I called the dealership and made an appointment. "Hi. Lemme tell you what's up. My car is not going to pass emissions. The check engine light is on because my car throws a code for a crank shaft positioning sensor--that's always been the issue, and I know it's still the issue because I've hooked it up to a code reader. There is nothing wrong with that sensor, it's been replaced at least twice. I don't expect you to fix whatever the problem is, I don't care what the problem is. I just need to spend $450 so that I can get an emissions waiver. Do what you need to do to make that happen, but that's what I want."

Sensor? Not broken. Car? Not broken. Customer? Not stupid.

Car gets dropped off last night, phone call this morning. The Mensa representative at the dealership called me to let me know my crank shaft positioning sensor is bad, and his Odyssey of the Mind partner in crime on the floor has all these theories as to why that might be.

*blink*

Listen up, Braintrust. The sensor probably isn't bad, because like I said, that's always been the code it's thrown. But go ahead and replace it. Whatever turns you on, buddy. Seriously, I'm at peace with my check engine light. Please do me the courtesy of not fucking insulting my intelligence in the meantime.

"I didn't realize you had this problem before."

Look, asshole. I'm not your girlfriend; try listening to me. I know I told you that because every conversation with you people scars me permanently.

"Well, when your check engine light came back on then, why didn't you bring it back in?"

Because I was out of cars to borrow! And because, like most higher order mammals, I can learn to recognize patterns. I bring car in. I spend money. Car stays broken. After three weeks, the novelty wore off.

"Well, we'll replace the sensor and go from there."

Mmmkay. Bye.

I sit at work trying to keep the Dipshittery Express from flying off the tracks while trying to decide if it would be unseemly for a 31 year old to take up cutting. The phone rings.

"Hi. This is Braintrust from the dealership. We put in the new crankshaft position sensor, and it didn't work."

Really? Shocking. Do continue.

"So we took it back out and put the old one in, and then our tech did some stuff, and it didn't work, and then he did something and then the engine didn't even work and we thought oh shit that's bad and then some other stuff happened and now he thinks he's a woman trapped in a man's body and this one time at band camp..."

Braintrust? Hey. Lemme make this easy for you. The car has 108,000+ miles on it and it runs. I'm not spending thousands of dollars so you guys can go spelunking under the hood. I am there to spend money for an emissions waiver. That's all. So tell you what. Tell JimBob he can do whatever he wants. Seriously. He can do whatever he wants until my bill reaches $445. At $445, I want him to put all the screws back, and get out of my car.

"Well, he says it could be this..."

Great. Fine. Get him out of my car when he's done $445 worth of work. Buh-bye.

A very little bit of time passes before Braintrust calls me back to let me know that I've already pretty much spent that money, and can pick up the car whenever.

Perfect! Great. Thursday is looking up.

But then I start to think. Despite my saying repeatedly that the SOLE reason I have for bringing my car in was to spend $450 for emissions work, I wonder if I did. I mean, he might have done other work that wouldn't count towards that $450, so maybe he needs to throw in an air filter or new hamster or something. I call.

Braintrust is gone and someone else answers. And I explain the situation.

"Well. I have your bill here, and it's $458."

That's fine. I just need to verify that enough of that is money that I've pissed away on you not fixing a problem that you can't identify.

"Braintrust is gone, you see. And the tech that worked on it left at 3:30. I can call Braintrust on his cell phone."

Wait a sec. Don't you have an itemized invoice there? 'Cuz your little partner in crime told me I could pick the car up tonight.

"Well, let me call him on his cell and call you back."

I know then that this is going to end with someone getting called a motherfucker, and I'm equally confident that someone isn't going to be me.

"Hi, this is Mensa at the dealer."

Mmmhmmm?

"If what you're looking to do is pass emissions, then you can't pick your car up tonight. There are a couple of concerns..."

And that is when my left eyeball fell out of my head.

I don't CARE about your concerns. I don't CARE what the problem is. I told you people from the first conversation that I was knowingly throwing money into a hole to get an emissions waiver. I didn't believe for a second you would actually fix anything. THIS HANGS IT--AS GOD AS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER BUY NISSAN AGAIN. I don't give a shit what you do to the car, I would be perfectly happy to give you $450 to buy your wife something that means she'll have to touch your penis. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS ANY SIMPLER THAN I HAVE.

"Whenever you go for an emissions waiver, everything has to be documented in a really specific way."

I cannot IMAGINE a parallel universe in which I gave a shit LESS. I told you what I wanted you to do and why. I was clear. I was specific. I was assertive. I don't know how to explain this any better, Fucko. You people make me want to cave in my own forehead with a ball-peen hammer.

"Your car will be ready tomorrow."

Awesome, and only 24 hours later than it should have been. No time at all, really, considering all the shit you didn't accomplish.

My conclusion is this: I really will not be buying another Nissan. The cars themselves are mostly fine, but they hire absolute fucktards to work for their dealers.

If they give me any shit tomorrow, I'm paying with the goddamn title; getting the emergency bridesmaid dress out of the trunk, and going over to the Toyota dealer.

On Anger

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend of mine at a party when he mentioned that he liked my blog. I was reasonably flattered, as I have assumed right along that in general the only people who would read it are those that have to, such as The Boy and The Liquor Fairy, and the occasional stalker who finds it by accident while trolling for victims. Also, I quite enjoy his meandering vitriol, which means that I count him in the .02% or so of the population whose opinions I don’t dismiss out of hand.

As we chatted, he mentioned that one of the things he liked about my blog is the fact that I’m so “angry.”

Hmm.

Even though I knew he meant it in a good way, my first response was to dispute that fact. “I’m not angry,” I protested, “I’m . . . not . . . I’m a pleasant person. I’m NICE.”

Who the fuck do I think I’m kidding? I’m not nice, I’m polite, and sometimes I can’t even manage that convincingly. Hell, I don’t even want to be nice. In fact, I am pretty angry. I’m not joyless or bitter about it, but I spend a decent amount of time in a state of low-grade rage.

Why? Well, god. There are just so many reasons.

I have been pissed about President Halfwit since the word go. I am pissed that he was elected the first time, and I’m REALLY pissed that he was elected again. He’s a fucking idiot of the first order, and I’m beginning to suspect he might be batshit crazy to boot. Do not even get me started on the rest of monsters in his administration.

I am tired of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights being read like lists of suggestions.

Speaking of the Bush administration, I remain pissed off at Ralph Nader. I will always be pissed off at Nader. If Nader’s teeth were on fire, I would not piss in his mouth. I will always, ALWAYS blame Nader for Bush. Every dead soldier in Iraq? Nader’s fault. As soon as the first woman dies after Roe v. Wade is completely gutted by those bastards on the Supreme Court, I’m sending him the picture of her bloodied corpse (which I feel certain will appear in the local paper or online). If he’s dead by then I’m taking it to his grave. I love a futile gesture as much as the next girl, truly I do. There is, however, a line between making a noble but futile gesture and being a megalomaniacal asshole.

While we’re on the subject of dead women, I’m sick of being a second class citizen. I am angry that we cannot manage to treat the decision to have a child as though it were anything but a flippant decision on par with picking a fucking handbag; one that is the exclusive province and problem of women. I’m angry that after all this time, people still talk to my boobs. I’m tired of a lot of things having to do with being a chick. I am sick of “women’s issues” being somehow different and inferior from regular “issues.” Hell, I’m mad that my first reaction upon being told that I’m angry was to insist that I’m not. I should be angry—I’m not stupid. My first reaction should not be to feel bad about that.

BUT, I have it lucky. No burqa. No child marriage. No dowry. I can leave my house. See a doctor. Go to school. I might be cranked about some of the bullshit that goes on in this country attendant on my having a uterus that goes on in this country, but at least I’m here. At least I don’t have a target on me, or a very low price on my head. At least I usually don’t feel expendable.

I am angry about reality television.

I am angry people who don’t have enough sense not to, at the very least, vote against their own best interest. Do you come from a LOT of money, preferably OLD money? No? Then why. The Fuck. Would you ever. EVER. Vote Republican? You stupid ‘git.

I am angry about those stupid health care personal savings accounts folks keep bandying on about it. The whole proposition of “People will choose more wisely if they are spending their own money,” is asinine. Yeah. I just randomly SPEND healthcare dollars. I go to the doctor because I love waiting and old magazines. I take birth control for shits and giggles, not because I don’t want to have a kid I can’t afford to feed. And when the time comes I need a mammogram? It will just be because I want to have my boobs mashed. Are there people who over-utilize healthcare resources? Sure, but most don’t. Most avoid the doctor unless they need to go, either for illness or for a checkup to prevent illness. Since most people don’t like waiting, co-pays, or needles, most people partake as little as possible in the healthcare system.

You know what will happen when people are forced to pay cash for their own healthcare, without assistance from insurance? Lots and lots of dying, punctuated with gangrene and tumors the size of grapefruits.

And finally (for now), I am angry that so many people don’t recognize the difference between “everyday” and “every day.”

We Can't Even Have Words

*sigh*

It’s official. I’ve reached the unfortunate conclusion that it is not a particularly good time to be a woman in America. I’m not sure if there has EVER been a good time to be a woman in America, frankly, but things seem to be taking rather a turn for the worst.

I no longer know why any of this surprises me. I suppose it is because I have made such a concerted effort not to surround myself with typical meatheads, nor do I spend time with misogynists (who can and do hail from both sexes). The downside of that, though, is that I tend to forget my vagina means that I will forever be a second class citizen.

In a fresh and interesting approach to insulting women everywhere, a judge in a Nebraska rape trial declared that no one in the courtroom could use any of the following words or phrases during the trial: rape, sexual assault, victim, assailant, or sexual assault kit. This gag order not only applied to the lawyers, police, or experts in the case, but it also included the woman who states she was raped.

The defense, who asked for this linguistic somersaulting, feels that using words like “rape” implies guilt. They argue that allowing the woman to say “That man raped me,” will make the jury will be unable to rationally look at the evidence and decide if, in fact, that man did rape her.

So the logical conclusion is to require the woman to use the exact same words to describe non-consensual sex as one would describe consensual sex. Of course. That makes perfect sense.

I’ve had a decent amount of sex. Good, bad, and indifferent. I am fortunate in that I have not ever been raped. There but for the Grace of God go I. That said, I cannot imagine being required to describe a sex act in which I was unwilling participant in the same words I would describe sex that I wanted.

Words have meaning. Sex and rape are not the same things. Period. Never. Never. It is an insult to everyone everywhere to even suggest anything different. And that is what this judge’s ruling does. By insisting that this woman describe what she perceives as a physical assault in the same words she would use to describe a consensual act, the judge takes away her ability to accurately talk about the truth as she knows it. Suddenly, the words to describe what really happened to her just aren’t there.

And that, my friends, is seriously fucked up.

Of course, the judge should admonish the jury that what a witness says or how she says it does not constitute a legal conclusion. After all, you might have a random complete idiot sucking air in the jury box who doesn’t realize that a trial is meant to ferret out what really happened. To say that the lawyers and other professionals mustn’t actually use the word “rape” might not be horrifying. “Rape” is a word that carries an immense emotional charge—as it should—and what the cops and the doctors and fuckall knows who else in this situation need to convey can probably be communicated through more exact and less charged terms.

But to say that they can’t use the phrase “sexual assault” is absurd, and to say that the woman can’t describe what happened to her as she perceives it is preposterous and a continuation of a terrible and terrifying victimization. Further, the jury was not even told that the forbidden words were, in fact, forbidden. What must those people have thought as everyone including the complainant tap danced around every term that would reasonably be used to describe the incident they were all supposed to try? A normal person might guess that the woman was, alas, batshit crazy.

I do find myself asking if Judge Cocksmack would have reached this same legal conclusion had this not been a date rape. If this woman were, say, out jogging or selling fucking bible subscriptions, would he have taken her words right out of her mouth? Methinks not. What the fuck do I know, though? Maybe my
uterus is wandering.

Of course, this would never happen in a robbery or a homicide. Rape, though, happens primarily to women. So, what does it fucking matter anyway? I should just be grateful to be out of the kitchen.

E-mail? What E-mail?

My dear friend, the esteemed Liquor Fairy, recently blogged in response to the Retread Administration assertion that they have deleted—and cannot find—four years of e-mail that Karl Rove sent from his GOP account, including documents relating to the firing of federal prosecutors.

First of all, damn. Can you imagine what a wretched burden it would have to be to slog through four years of e-mail written by Karl Rove to other Republicans? The thought of it is giving me palpitations. Four years worth of “We should just EAT the poor. And brown people.”

Second of all, and more importantly, Mandy suggests that this “We deleted these e-mails and can no longer recover them,” is President Retread’s latest way of telling Congress to get bent. Instead of claiming executive privilege or screaming “I’m invisible! You can’t see me!” the president’s latest let-them-eat-cake move is just to say “We lost’em.” Worked for Nixon. Okay, not really, but whatever.

Her argument is that the Feds can certainly locate the deleted files on the hard drive in question, or at some servers down at AT&T, or something. And under normal circumstances, I would agree with her. But then? Then I actually take a look a this administration.

This is the person who brought us the war in Iraq. “Bring them on.” Who declared the "Mission Accomplished" in Iraq, back in 2003. President Retread brought us Hurricanegedon Katrina and its shocking, horrific, “Brownie, you’re doing a heckuva job” aftermath.

We couldn’t get potable water to American citizens. In America. They might NOT be able to get those e-mails back. Hell, I’m half surprised they managed to turn the little laptop fucker on.

I say we let Otto try.

On (sub)Standard English Usage

Once upon a time, I said exactly what I thought without saying at all what I meant. When forced by circumstance to extract my food from my mouth and . . . correct . . . the outrageously stupid words I had actually used, I labeled the entirety of my side of the conversation as (sub)Standard English Usage.

Looking back, that describes many events and exchanges in my life with terrific aptness.

Here's to hoping that in writing this down, I do a better job of keep my big feet out of it.