I had a moral victory and loss at the same time earlier this week when I started talking to my father about my car. For as long as I can remember, he and my mom have kept track of their mileage and how much they spend on gas, and when I moved out, I stopped keeping track. The numbers are useless to me, and it's a waste of time to write down useless information. When I moved back home and my dad started checking my fluids for me again, he asked, "Where's the little mileage book?"
"Fell out somewhere in Nebraska, I guess," I lied.
I realized then that if I was living under his roof, I should probaby follow his rules. Except this past week, I got angry that I was writing this down every time I stopped to fill up. I don't care if I paid 2.669/gallon two months ago and 2.179/gallon last week. It's inconsequential.
So I told my dad, "I need to talk to you about something. You know my mileage? I don't care. It's my car, it's in my name, I pay the insurance, and I don't care about tracking my mileage. I will write down when I put in oil and check fluids, but I don't want to write down my mileage anymore."
He acquiesed. Victory! Then I asked my next question, "Can you show me how to change my oil?"
He hesitated. "You need tools," he started saying. "A jack and stands."
I was like, "You have that stuff, and I still live here..." but felt more like saying, "You mean I don't have a penis."
His response? "I could show S how to do that."
Defeat.
I wanted to yell, "But it's not his responsibility! And he isn't mechanical! And what do I do when he dumps me for someone hotter who knows how to change her own oil?!" but I didn't. Instead, I rolled my eyes. "Eve knows how to change her own oil," I told him, using the logic of school children.
"Since we use high-grade oil, I only change it once a year," was his next response.
Sometime this year, I'm going to watch him do it, and take notes.
No comments:
Post a Comment