OK – I rate guy’s mechanical ability….so sue me
I rate them on a 0 – 10 by asking questions, with that vacant look I have perfected.
I’ve already told you I’m mechanical. I know how an engine works, electricity all that kind of thing. Problem is, I got hooters. Most men just simply wont believe that a person with boobies and an absence of a couple of bags between the legs can know how a car works. No problem, that a stack of men haven’t a clue what goes on under the bonnet…A guy wont mind mentioning to another guy that he knows nothing about cars, but to a woman. Never. Ive seen guys standing over an open bonnet with absolutely no idea what is going on just because that is what a guy should do. When the car grinds to a halt, open the bonnet and look, as if it will get better all on its own, just cos a man has looked in it.
I once suggested to a guy leaning into his very sad sounding Mercedes 300D (the D denotes a diesel ) that perhaps his spark plugs needed cleaning. He nodded wisely. When I stop to help a man with his car, its always good to know from the start, how good a mechanic he is. So I rate them. The guy with(out) the spark-plugs, maybe a 0/10. I ask little questions and rate the answers. If the guy is over 5/5, I get back in my car and drive off. He wont need me. Even if he is incompetent, he wont accept it and will just waste my time.
So here is a little story to illustrate my point…(watch this space, I got plenty just like this one)
I am driving home one day, in our Peugeot 404. Just past the railway bridge, I see a guy in a Toyota (remember them – the 2,4’s, really good model.) He’s standing near his loaded car, bonnet up, staring into the engine. So I stop. Hey I’m a nice guy.
“So, what’s the problem?” I ask.
He looks at my legs, then my front and says, “Its over-heating.” (5 on a scale of ten.)
“Ok,” says I, nodding and looking encouraging “why?”
He puts on that look that guys reserve for stupid women with legs and boobs and says, “Cos the temperature gauge says so.” ( 0 on a scale of one to ten)
I don’t roll my eyes, here. I just go over to the wheels and feel them all. Yup. The front one is hot enough to cook an egg.
“Its this wheel bearing,” I say.
He still hasn’t had time to wipe that look off his face, cos he has been staring at my legs when I lent down to check the wheels….
“You’ll have to go back to Bullies,” I say.
“Nope. I have to get to Gweru today. Absolutely have to.”
He’s not going to get to Gweru. That’s for certain, probably not even back to Bulawayo. But hey, hes a guy. He’s got masendes (goolies, testicles, goens, cojones)…what can I say.
I jack the wheel up. Ah, with my jack. He doesn’t have one. And the wheel is racketing backwards and forwards, (for you technical types – his brakes were rubbing, causing the overheating.)
“Well, praps we should tighten this bearing. You may get back to town…” (A man could say, “Ill tighten this wheel bearing, although it may not last…us girls can only suggest.)
I use my tools, cos he didn’t have any in his car. Not one. No shifting, no bobojaan, no screwdriver, hammer nothing. Nikies.
I tighten his wheel bearing, check the wheel rolls and tell him once again to go back to Bulawayo, but after a surfeit of long, brown, hot legs and flashes of cute little underwear groveling under his front wheel, he isn’t listening to sense. Actually that’s a lie. He thinks he knows better. It’s nothing to do with the long legs or the short mini. He has masende and he knows better and he has to be in Gweru today.
So I smiled and I waved and I said good luck, chum.
I even drove behind him all the way to the turn off (well duh, I was driving a 404) glad he was soon to be someone else’s problem.