It is considered derogatory and sexist to refer to people’s moments of stupidity as “blonde moments” or stereotype them as “girl mistakes.” These terms have never really bothered me, perhaps because I know that, truthfully, I could easily fill a weekly blog called “Confessions of a blonde chic.” Between cooking disasters, car troubles, ignorant comments, and aimless, direction-less passion, I can fit into any box or stereotype you’ve ever heard of.
Like all writers and creative types, I suffer the bane of absent-mindedness. (My co-workers are slowly learning to call out my name before speaking to me, because they are learning that just because I’m looking at someone is no guarantee that I’m listening.) Due to this, I am a list person. No palm pilot planner, just simple sticky notes around my desk, and my home fridge and dining room table. I usually remember to check my lists because I am accustomed to myself. The problem is when my lists are for John; he is not yet accustomed to all my habits.
So when he took my car to the mechanics awhile back, he did not take the list I left him detailing everything I needed detailed. Instead I received a phone call and Emily-without-her-list was left to remember the many problems I had previously written down. I am proud to report that I only forgot one unimportant thing: I was out of windshield wiper fluid.
Of course, driving my long commute to work in questionable weather with a dirty windshield is not great. But I’m a busy gal and just wasn’t getting around to making another appointment at the garage.
Then this weekend John cleaned out his filthy car. He proudly recounted the crap he had ridded, including trash in his trunk from before we were even married. (We have moved twice and driven to our honeymoon in this car!) He also mentioned refilling his wiper fluid. I looked at him in awe.
“You know how to do that by yourself?”
I got a look of deep offense but cut me some slack – I didn’t marry a “car guy.” I mean, he thinks he is. If the television show “Top Gear” were the Bible, John’s insistence on the superiority of the British version over the American would wreak with the snobbish devoutness of a King–James-version-only purist. But in our generation, the attachment to a culture and ethic far supersedes practical ability.
Unfortunately, this was more than me slighting my husband’s knowledge of vehicles and I continued to put my foot in my mouth as I confessed surprise that washer fluid was something one could just buy anywhere — like Wal-Mart — and that the process was as simple as he later demonstrated.
Yes, I do have a driver’s license. I also am a farm kid who can drive stick shift and has operated various types of large machinery. But just because I was taught about cars doesn’t mean I was listening.
John never once called me a “girl,” nor did he throw in a blonde joke, despite how much I deserved the retaliation. I did get a look that basically encapsulated those things, but it was the least I deserved.
He’s a bigger person than I am.