So I rushed right home to tell you about it instead

I have always driven the sort of car that required frequent mechanical attention. The kind of car that would be able to unironically sport the bumper sticker "At least it's paid for!"


As a result, while I am not mechanically inclined (because that would render my boobs almost useless), I am at least not illiterate in the ways of cars. I can check and add air, fill the oil and the coolant and even check the transmission fluid with out requiring a lie down when I'm done.


So this afternoon, as I was filling up my tank with delicious $2.89 a gallon gas, I thought I'd do a bit of routine fluid checking.


Sure enough the Juice was low on oil and transmission fluid. Now, because I'm a self sufficient kind of girl, I had both fluids in the cargo area. I retrieve them, find something to stand on (because I can't reach), open the oil, insert the funnel and top her off. No biggie. I'm feeling very smug and modern as I head over to the other side of the engine compartment to top off the tranny fluid.

Now, here's the problem, the transmission fluid is filled through a wee tiny spout way at the bottom of the engine. And my truck is tall. And I am not. But I am clever, so I climb up and stand on the tire. I can now both see and reach what I'm doing. I am not, however, very stable.

I have no problem inserting the tubey-thingy from the funnel, but it doesn't stay in unless you hold it, so balancing precariously, in flip-flops, on the tire, using my boobs for balance, I hang onto the funnel with one hand and unscrew the lid of the fluid with the other. With the sort of one handed skill that only comes from years of opening condom wrappers one handed, I remove the lid and slide my hand down the bottle to get a better grip.

Only, the bottle is warm.

And pliable.

And a little slippery.

As it starts to slide from my hand, I clamp down.

In slow motion transmission fluid erupts like a fountain. All over the engine, all over the hood and all over my arm.

AWESOME.

So there I am, ass in the air, half inside the engine compartment, one arm dripping red and the other perilously close to being severed by moving parts. Defeated, I put down the bottle and hop down.

Now, do you think any of the fifty men at the station come to my assistance? No, they do not. Having no time and lacking the Spanish skills to rant loudly about the lack of chivalry, I decide the most prudent thing to do is clean up. But the towel dispenser is empty. And I have no napkins in the glove box. No tissues in my purse. No too small tee shirt in the trunk. No junk mail even.

Nothing but a package of panty liners. Fresh scented, even. Awesome. Really, though, what are my options? Drive home with an arm looking like a prop from a low budget slasher movie or bite the bullet and give myself a once over with individually wrapped lady diapers?

I only wish I had a camera, so that you could have seen the look on the face of the guy next to me as I discarded 12 bright red feminine hygiene products into the communal trash.