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WOMEN
have come a long way in defining the parameters of what
being female, or being feminine, is all about. With our
gorgeous physical attributes, we also use our brains to
become accomplished in whatever field we choose to excel
in. Many women go on to become outstanding managers,
executives and in any office position traditionally held
by men. They are highly paid and treat themselves to new
furniture, new jewelry and new wardrobe, and reward
themselves for hard work with vacations they pay for.
Some of
us have even gone on to make a mark in extremely
dangerous sports or adventure hobbies, which, only a few
years ago, were started and dominated by men. (I don’t
know about you, but hiking in the woods is rather
extreme for me.)
And we
even know how to change a light bulb.
I know
my mom still worries sometimes that I may not find the
right man to settle down with because I’m not “needy”
enough. I can buy the correct light-bulb wattage to
change the old one, make minor repairs in the toilet,
use a hammer on nail to put up photo frames, unclog the
drain, set up my Internet connection with my Wi-Fi
router, sync my Mac with my PDA and cell phone, etc. I
don’t need a guy to do those things for me.
I even
remember asking my Pop for a drill as a birthday
present. I was living away from my parents at the time
and just could not put up any artwork on my apartment
walls as they were all cemented. Pop thought I was out
of my mind for wanting a drill before finally
pronouncing my present of choice—at about P3,500 for a
basic Black and Decker unit—an expensive proposition.
Hmmph!
I can
juggle work and household chores. I can live without a
maid except that now, I have an 80-year-old mother who
needs to have someone home with her when I’m out. And I
love cooking.
But
unlike most career women, I don’t drive. Most people who
know how tough I can be sometimes are aghast that I
don’t even own a car. I just tell them that I’ve never
really seen the need for one, even if I did grow up
being ferried to school and everywhere else in the
family car driven by Pop or the family driver.
Well,
sometimes the car and driver were not available as Pop
often used them for work. So thanks to Mama, I did learn
how to use public transport. As a child in the late
’70s, we would often take a bus (no air conditioning
back then, folks!) to go shopping at Zurbaran, or to my
Pop’s office on San Marcelino Street in Manila to play
tennis, before checking out the new goodies at Rustan’s,
which was just a couple of blocks down that road. Of
course, this was a time when the Metro was still pretty
clean, and traffic was not yet the nightmare that it has
become.
In the
’80s I rode the jeepney from Del Monte Avenue in Quezon
City—just a five-minute walk from where the family used
to live—to De La Salle University on Taft Avenue in
Manila for my college classes. And the ride took a mere
30 minutes!
So you
can say I’m pretty much “self-sufficient” in terms of
moving around the Metro—and having a boyfriend with a
car is just one of those bonuses of being in a
relationship...ut not a necessity. To this day, I
generally travel around in cabs—I am a long-time suki at
R&E—or via rail. (When traveling by way of the MRT, it
helps to be in a New York state of mind.)
But
since my Pop passed away last year, I’ve been saddled
with his car. It is in dealing with this monstrosity
that I find myself at a loss and sometimes missing
having a man. I just don’t understand cars or how they
work.
When I’m
in traffic, I’m the one who’ll say, “That’s a cute red
car,” when men would probably remark, “That’s a fierce
Jag” before proceeding to discuss and dissect the thing
for its speed, maneuverability, etc. I can discuss with
men rather exhaustively why a Mac is better than the PC,
but my brain will automatically switch off when talk
turns to comparing a Honda with a Toyota. To me, a car
is a car is a car.
My
friends have been egging me to use Pop’s car, saying
that because I’m malakas ang loob, I can do it.
Some of them think I’m afraid to drive, which is not the
case. I even have two A1 driving certificates and a
current driver’s license to prove I can drive. I just
don’t like manual transmission. It is tedious to shift
gears, not to mention look for a parking slot. I would
rather drive an automatic, and I’m toying with the idea
of buying one just to drive Mama around. Personally, I
don’t need it. Why would I want to stress myself sitting
in a traffic jam, or worrying that when I come out of
the mall my car would no longer be where I had parked
it?
And now
Pop’s car has died on us from lack of use. My sister’s
driver, who first took a look at it, said it was the
battery. But when he tested it, the battery worked fine
on his car. Then I find out the car doesn’t have a
carburetor like most cars, but a fuel-injection system
(not that I know what a carburetor even looks like). I
mean WTF?!?! What the hell does a fuel-injection system
look like?
So our
electrician-cum-mechanic discerned, with some divine
intervention I suppose, that the fuel pump was not
working daw. He dismantled it for us to bring to
the car dealer where Pop had bought the car. I had
enough sense to ask the sales guy there to have the
thing checked first to see if it’s actually working or
not, before dropping P8,500 in the car dealer’s cash
register for a new one.
When the
sales guy returned, he said it might not be the fuel
pump after all, as it was working okay. He had the
general look of pity of most men talking to women who
don’t know cars. He said something else might be wrong
with the car that activates the pump to bring fuel to
the engine. I could hear him speaking but my eyes glazed
over, and I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. Sigh.
I could really use a boyfriend right now.
So now
I’m waiting around for another friend’s mechanic to come
around to really get a good look at that blasted car. I
will probably end up agreeing with everything the
mechanic says, and buy whatever he wants me to buy for
the car, because I wouldn’t have a clue about anything
coming from his mouth anyway. I can only hope that this
mechanic would have more credibility than our
electrician, as he is trusted by a guy-friend who is
into the whole car thing.
Sure, I
enjoy being a girl, but there are just days when I
realize that I can’t do everything.
***(Boyfriend applications will be accepted at
stella_arnaldo@hotmail.com. You must be at least 18
years old to apply. This is a short-term gig...until the
damned car gets fixed.) |
