Auto repair - One of life's mysteries

Let's start by admitting most women are at a cultural disadvantage when it comes to car repair and maintenance.

While we were listening to our moms pontificate on Shout vs. Spray and Wash, our brothers were learning about oil changes and carburetors.

Dad really did try to show me a thing or two about my car. In theory, I know how to change a tire. In practice, I purchase an annual membership to AAA.

But, especially going through college and our first jobs, we ladies learned what can go wrong with the jalopies we drove. I had to carry a can of cola at all times to pour over the battery cables of my 1974 Chevrolet Malibu, lovingly nicknamed the Blue Bomber. I kept a gallon of water in the trunk of my 1994 Toyota Tercel until I could get $700 together for a water pump.

So I don't need that condescending you-don't-know-squat attitude I get from many males in the auto maintenance and repair industry. Like the mechanic in Sikeston who told me maybe the clicking sound I heard when I made a sharp turn was the pop music on my radio. Turns out the boot around my CV joint was cracked -- a problem ultimately diagnosed by a family friend. Poetic justice would have been if that mechanic lost steering on Interstate 55.

Monday morning found me at the same St. Petersburg garage that allegedly put new brakes on my CRV a month ago -- brakes that now caused the steering wheel to vibrate wildly at stops. I spent two hours in the waiting room. At one point, the intake guy and the mechanic actually stood about 10 feet from me and acted like I wasn't there.

"She says the wheel vibrates when she panic breaks," the intake guy said.

"That's because of how she's braking," the mechanic said.

Panic breaks? In other words, the crazy woman driver is causing her own problems.

"Excuse me," I said. "I heard that. And I'm sure both of you have enjoyed brake jobs where you could actually use the brakes without fearing for your lives. That's what I want."

They sighed and walked out to the garage area, where they would be free to call me names without my interference.

I guess I should consider myself lucky. The intake guy called out another woman in front of the whole room.

I.G.: Ma'am, it's been 11,000 miles since your last oil change. You're supposed to change it every 3,000.

Woman: No, I've changed it since then.

I.G.: NO YOU DIDN'T! IT'S OUR STICKER ON THERE!

The intake guy approached another woman and said slowly, "I think you need your WINDSHIELD WIPERS changed. That will help you SEE BETTER."

Meanwhile, the male customers got a simple, "Hey, dude. Got you all fixed up and ready to go."

Ultimately, the intake guy claimed to have sanded my rotors so they wouldn't be warped. As I heard it, he BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. But I have my car back, and it seems to be OK.

My experience made me think of a business that would make millions -- women fixing cars for other women. We'd be caring nurturers of each other, addressing car worries ("That must make you feel very angry and frightened") and explaining problems in easy-to-understand terms ("Then the brake pad thingy touches the inside of the wheel").

That's it. I'm going to trade school.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.