Wilbur

I recently inherited a jerry-rigged compressor from my late grandfather.   This is wonderful news because my right front tire has a mysterious slow leak.  Now, instead of spending a dollar for air every two weeks, I can fill my tired myself.  For free.  Can't argue with that!

Now, my grandfather, ever the tinkerer, seems to have spliced battery clips onto the compressor's original cord.  It is quite possible the compressor came with battery clips, but there is this suspicious bandage of electrical tape between cords of different colors.  Everything else that my grandpa remade turned out better, so I gave it a shot.  I have to admit, my life (along with Wilbur's battery life) does flash before my eyes every time I clip the thing to the battery.  Despite my fear of electrocution and dead batteries, the thing works wonderfully.

This has been added to a growing list of "man" skills I have acquired when it comes to my car.  I am quite skilled at changing a flat (which I've somehow managed to do over 10 times in my life so far), checking my oil and changing headlight bulbs.

I was raised knowing that I could do anything a man could, only better.  There are a few exceptions, however the only substantial one of these is peeing standing up. And the jury is still out on how useful that really is.  This probably accounts for my pride and stubborn insistance to take care of my car myself.  I don't care if I'm in heels and work clothes, I can and will fix my own flat, thank you very much.


All the same, I don't think I'll mind having a man around so that, at least once in a while, I don't have to get my hands dirty.