An oil change and an attitude change

I pride myself on being a fairly intelligent woman; not the type to overlook important details. For example, the level of oil in my car.
My trusty gray Volvo had begun to make a funny high-pitched sound. Years ago I read ‘auto repair for dummies’ and although I didn’t learn how to fix anything, I did learn how my car works and I learned where certain parts of the engine were located. I know that a car is like a pet; you can’t just feed it and leave it, it also needs regular maintenance. I have learned from trial and error that it is a good idea to keep gas in the tank and how to change a flat tire. I also knew that it is important to check the oil and top it up.
I don’t really have a good excuse for why I haven’t checked the oil in months. I put it off, I guess. Every time I remembered I was already in the house or I was late for work or something like that. But the noise in the engine was getting insistently louder, and I knew it wasn’t a squeaky-fan-belt-noise or a grinding-transmission-noise or a worn-brake-pads-noise. I suspected I should check the oil.
I finally did last week and discovered to my horror that instead of the smooth sheen of oil on the end of the dipstick, there were clumps of brown gunk. Oh no.
Luckily my brother Sam was in town for the week. Luckily for two reasons: a) he knows all about cars and b) he doesn’t make me feel stupid for not knowing all about cars. I called him out to take a look at it and he groaned.
“You’re almost totally out of oil. You just took a few years off your engine’s life.”
He didn’t have to try to make me feel stupid; I did feel stupid.
“Put some 15-40 in right now.” He told me, “and get the oil changed as soon as you can. Hopefully it will be okay.”
The more I thought about my car running out of oil, the more embarrassed I felt. How could I have let that slip by? That definitely wasn’t the behavior of a truly intelligent woman. How could I remedy the situation?
I decided there was only one thing to do. I would change the oil in the car myself.
I drove to Lordco and went in and asked the woman at the counter for an oil filter for my ’87 Volvo. I felt quite smug at the look on her face.
“You’re going to change the oil yourself?” She asked disbelievingly.
“Of course.” I said. “It’s not rocket science.”
“Well, is your car a 740 or 760 series?” she asked. “A four or six cylinder?”
I suddenly wondered if my face showed my stupidity.
“A 740 series” I said slowly, “but maybe you’d better check the size for the 760 as well.”
I bought the filter and the oil and drove to my Dad’s shop. I parked my car in the back and spread cardboard under it and found a tray and waited for the engine to cool a bit, then I wiggled under with a crescent wrench and tried to loosen the bolt to let the oil out. It wouldn’t even budge. The wrench slipped off and I banged my hand on something and it started to bleed. Perhaps I was using the wrong type of wrench. I actually had no idea what type of wrench to use but I had this vague idea that if I saw the right one, I would recognize it. I went back into the shop and began to look through the drawers full of tools. Outside I suddenly heard a truck pull up and it was Luis, the very capable man who works for my Dad and seems to know the location of everything and anything. He came in and saw me standing there with nothing but a lonely look and a wrench.
“I’m changing the oil in the my car.” I told him nonchalantly. “I’m looking for a wrench but I can’t seem to find the right one anywhere.”
“You need a different kind.” He told me.
“Oh, I know that.” I said quickly.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a combination wrench. As soon as I saw it I knew that it was the right tool, of course.
I went back outside and wiggled under the car and tried to move the bolt but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come out.” I heard Luis say. “Let me try.”
I wiggled out and he squiggled under.
“Don’t do it all the way!” I shouted under the car. “I want to do it myself!”
“I just loosened it.” He told me as he slid out.
“How?” I asked curiously.
“I just tried a different angle, that’s all.”
He told me to put gloves on and I went back under the car and emptied the oil out and only got a bit on my forehead and a bit spilled out of the pan, but that was okay. Luis showed me how to hammer a screwdriver into the old oil filter and twist it off and I put the new one on. I recapped the bolt and put new oil in, and let the car run a minute and then put a bit more in. I filled up the windshield wiper fluid with water and poured 2 liters of antifreeze into the cooling system and closed everything up, got rid of the black oil, washed my hands, and put away the tools.
I thanked Luis for his help and drove away feeling very, very proud of myself. Seriously, how many girls do you know that can change the oil in their cars? Even though it wasn’t raining, I turned on the windshield wipers so I could see what a good job I’d done filling up the fluid.
But my joy was short-lived. The windshield-wiper fluid spraying up on the window was fluorescent green. It could only be one thing. I had poured the antifreeze into the wiper fluid reservoir and water into the cooling system.
I turned the car around and drove back to Luis.
“Look at my windows.” I told him. “Antifreeze. What do I do?”
He assured me that I hadn’t harmed anything, but I would just have to let the antifreeze run out and then refill the wiper fluid again. I felt suddenly deflated. I knew that the windshield wiper fluid reservoir was built into the frame of the car and I couldn’t just lift it out and get the antifreeze back; I would have to let it spray out.
I drove down the road with my wipers on and the spray on full-blast. But antifreeze is not like water; the very characteristics that make it ideal for preventing freezing in your engine also prevent it from evaporating in the air or on the windshield as you drive. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw it jetting out behind me in a green mist. I slid down as far as I could in my seat and wondered what other drivers thought of someone who had their wipers on even though it was sunny, and had a trail of green liquid spraying behind the car.
Perhaps the whole experience would’ve turned out better if I hadn’t been so smug, I don’t know. Perhaps I should re-read ‘auto repair for dummies’, or at the very least, ‘auto maintenance for dummies’. Perhaps I will stay away from books entitled ‘Characteristics of intelligent women’ or ‘What antifreeze does to the environment’ or ‘How to act like you know it all when you actually know nothing’.