What do girls know?

OPINION: So being a girl isn't always the best fun, writes Sarah McCarthy in this week's Uptown Girl.

Apart from the waxing (which I don't really approve of but I hear it can be traumatic) and all of the hideous lunar madness and the bra wrangling and the sensible-yet-attractive-but-mainly-able-to-do-up-over-the-calves boot buying, there are also bits of being a girl that can make you wish you were Queen of the Universe with a special laser attached to your throne that you could use to dispatch annoyances with the flick of a gilded switch.

For example, anything to do with cars.

I was driving in one of the work cars this week, out to see a woman about a doggy nanny service. I was, oddly, portentously, thinking about the time I blew up my beloved old car. I had been off to the Wyndham races with Mr mr and a couple of friends and there was a mysterious tappety tappety coming from the enginal region of the car.

The blokes said something along the lines of "she'll be right" and, as those familiar with the story will know, I sailed gaily on until a piston went through the engine block and thus ended my fledgling relationship with the coolest car I have ever had.

So I was thinking about this as I scudded along the road this week and, lo and behold, the engine light went on and, simultaneously, the car lost power and started doing that scary juddery missing thing.

Yurk. I pulled over.

Of course, by the time the cavalry had come to collect me everything seemed fine so we crept back to town and the car was duly taken to the mechanic.

This is when the annoying part of being a girl comes into the story.

As I told the mechanic exactly what happened, I could see his face change from the "Oh yeah, mate, it's probably the diff or the fan belt or maybe there's a blockage in the fuel line, mate, rugby rugby testicles beer" face mechanics use with men, to the "Here we go, another silly Sheila. What would you know, darl? It was probably the radio lights she was looking at and got so shocked she took her foot off the accelerator – go home and do some ironing, love" face they use with women.

It happens. There's nothing we can do about it. Not even having a succession of Australian soaps (Neighbours, The Flying Doctors) with female mechanics, complete with a pretty smear of grease on a cheek and sexy overalls, will ever change that.

So, in desperation, I pulled myself up to my full height – probably frightening him with my bazoombas in the process – and said in my most queenly, nostril-flaring voice (and trying to valiantly ignore the fact that I had chosen that day of all days to wear a bright pink top), "I'm not completely unfamiliar with vehicles, you know" (and I'm not, that whole blowing up my car thing was an aberration) and gave him a bit of a hairy eyeball.

And of course what happened next was they ran every test ever invented on the car and there was nothing wrong with it.

I want my laser.

» Sarah McCarthy is a Southland Times staff member.

- © Fairfax NZ News

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