I Have Tits, but I'm Not a Tard: Why I Hate Being a Girl Sometimes

Some of the reasons I hate being a woman include these:  I bleed monthly.  I have to stuff cotton in my vagina to stop the bleeding or wear a miniature diaper around just so people don't think I have sat in chocolate pudding.  I am emotional, and at times these emotions can cause irrational behavior.  There are certain expectations I am to adhere to by our society; for example, I am not allowed to stick my hands down my pants in public to scratch my labia.  However, men are allowed to scratch their balls, and I see it happen a lot.  If my cooter starts itching, and I reach down to scratch it, people automatically think I'm disgusting, have crabs, or am a freak.  (Just a note: my cooter isn't diseased and is not currently itchy.) Men are allowed to fart in public--they can't hold it in, they say.  The only other person I have heard make that claim is my sister who loves to crap in public restrooms it seems. (Don't tell her I told you that, though.)

There are equally as many things I enjoy about being a woman:  I have boobs, and men don't.  I get to wear lipstick.  I can ask for help when repairing things or when I am having a hard time opening a jar of pickles, and I don't get stared at or accused of being a wuss.  Men often hold the door open, and for a germaphobe like me, this is a welcome blessing in disguise.  I am a crazy cat lady; crazy cat man just doesn't have the same ring to it.  I can watch romatic comedies and it's okay.

But the two most irritating things about being a woman are cars and computers.

While I was growing up, my step-dad taught me a lot about cars.  I was mostly an unwilling participant, but I happened to always be a fan of old junkers, and old junkers naturally come with problems.  While I only asked to physically help fix my 1987 Chevy Sprint once because I wanted to "get my hands dirty," I listened.  I listened to every single word my step-dad said, even when I didn't want to know how carburetors or fuel-injected cars work.  If it was a lecture about batteries and alternators, though I didn't necessarily want the long explanation--I just wanted the thing fixed already, please, damnit--I was a sponge for information.

This was recently (in the last year) most helpful to me when I looked at a new car at Dennis Dillon.  I bought a Saab a few years ago, and I have become a big fan.  As my Saab is past 200,000 miles, I thought it might be time to start looking.  On a Friday, I saw a red, 1999 Saab on Craigslist at Dennis Dillon.  I went to check it out on the sly;  I just wanted to see it and drive off--no salesmen, just a quick glance.  My roommate was the getaway driver, and as we turned into the lot, I jumped out, checked out the car,  and I was about to jump back in when a man was shouting across the lot at me.  Damn.  I was trapped.  To make a long-story short, I took the Saab for a test drive.  And when I started it, a red warning light was on.  I asked the salesman about it, and he said he didn't know what it was, and he didn't think their service department guys could get it looked at over the weekend because it was a Saab and they needed a "special computer" to look at it since it was "foreign."  "Oh, really?"  I asked, as I stepped out of the car after the test drive.  And as he told his disheartening saga of the foreign car, and made his way to his office--implying I should come along to work out a deal--I said, "Hold on a second."  I walked back to the car, opened the door, popped the hood, and lifted it up.  On top of the engine or right inside the hood on the frame, there are usually specifications for what kind of instrument your car needs to read warning messages.  Once again, I have owned cars with problems; this is something I know and have soaked in from listening to my step-dad.  "Yeah. It takes the ODB II.  The service department should have that."

My roommate stood nearby, and I could tell it took all her energy to hold back the biggest bout of laughter.  The guy looked humiliated: he was caught.  And I didn't care.  I didn't buy the car.  The manager and I had many phone calls about the car and what was wrong with it; he treated me like a girl.  What he didn't know is the whole time I was talking not only to my step-dad, but I was also talking to my mechanic, the one person I am thankful for who has never treated me like a girl.  When there were certain things that my step-dad couldn't fix on the car, I found a reputable mechanic whom I can call and tell what I think the problem is when the car is having issues.  He actually listens, and listens well.  He trusts that even though I can't do the work myself, I am capable of diagnosing a problem, even though I am a girl.  However, there are many other people in the car industry that don't understand this about the gender with boobs: parts guys, tire guys, tow truck drivers.  They just don't get it.

This leads me to today.  I got a Time Capsule for my computers to do backups.  For those that don't know, boobless or boobs-having, it is essentially a big hard drive that functions as a wireless router, too.  I have an old laptop and a newer desktop that I wanted to backup on this Time Capsule.  My desktop had no problem backing up, but the laptop was a completely different story.

I kept getting the same two error messages, and after searching forum after forum online for an answer, I reached out to friends for help on Facebook.  I got the best advice they knew how to give, but unfortunately, the problems weren't solved. 

I took a trip to the Mac store here in Boise.  And instead of trying to listen to my theories, the guy kept talking over me.  I told him I had set up a network and that my internet was working.  He said, "Well, you could be on anyone's internet connection if there is an unsecured network in your neighborhood."  It took me forever to explain that, no, I was positive I was on my OWN network.  It took me forever because the guy wouldn't shut up for a second and listen to me.  I explained that I understood how to set up the network and how to set up the Time Capsule, and he couldn't accept that as truth. As I tried to ask my questions to diagnose my problem and give my theory that it might be an operating system error--to possibly get his input--he cut me off and said he needed to see the computer and the Time Capsule. 

"How much will that cost?"  
"$100.00 bucks an hour," he said.  "It should take about a half hour to figure out." 
"And then it will be fixed?" I asked.
"Not necessarily."

After I got home, I researched more forums and found a temporary work-around the situation, which I will not explain here--boobs or no boobs, it's boring.  I researched the upgraded operating system online and discovered it 30 bucks. I decided I would try it to get a more permanent solution, so I went to Best Buy to get the operating system and to ask someone and try and pick their brain; it seemed as though a number of people had the same issue with their Time Capsules.  Some computer person had to have an answer.

When I started to ask the guy at Best Buy--the supposed expert--he didn't even want to listen to my question.  He immediately started writing down a phone number.  It was the number of the "in-home" tech who could come and set-up the Time Capsule for me. 

"But I don't need that," I said.  "I understand how to set it up, and it is working on one computer, just not the other."

And this is why it is frustrating to be a girl:  most everytime I have had to ask for help in cars or computers, men write me off.  And that's an interesting point: men are always the ones in the positions to be asked; there are rarely women in the fields of cars and computers. 

Men tune me out.  Instead of listening to my questions, as if I were another man asking the question, they assume I am incompetent and not worth their time. I swear the next time a man treats me like this, I am going to stomp on his toe--serious, look for me on the news.

Oh, and by the way, Mac store and Geek Squad guy?  The fucking operating system upgrade worked.  Eat it, fuckers.