Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Monday
Apr252016

Check Engine Lights Are Bullshit and Other Stories

I got a flat tire on the way to work today. It was the universe's way of letting me know who's boss in the immediate wake of finally managing to clean my car yesterday. I munched on weeks-old McDonalds fries from car seats and melty Easter candy I found in Violet's cupholder as I Armor-Alled vinyl that looked the exact same when I was finished.

Clean car, huh? Flat tire, bitch! Do not get cocky, I will destroy you.

I kept on driving in the face of the telltale whappity-whap-whap which delivered the bad news to my ears. Just pretended I didn't hear my tire angrily slapping roadway. That right there says all you need to know about my boredom with car drama as well as my tremendous capacity for denial and improper automotive care. Flat tire? I don't think so. Imma just keep on keeping on. What flat tire? Rush hour do-gooders were pulling up next to me mouthing and miming F L A T T I R E in all kinds of entertaining ways and I just thumbs-upped the good samaritans and turned up Prince. Dig if you will the picture...

I just didn't feel like pulling over. Fuck you, flat tire. I will drive until fiery sparks explode from my blackened rim before I let you win.

I eventually eased my rig off the road because, you know. Flat tire. It's getting fixed now.

"As long as I've gotta be here take a look-see at that check engine light that's been harassing me for months now," I told the guy.

Check engine lights are bullshit. I told the guy that too. I've never had one come through for me. They get all up in your face all the damn time just to mess with your slippery grip on peace in this world, force you to drive all uneasy-like, hands at ten and two, butthole clenched tighter than an inmate's while showering for the first time. And just when you're like, "OK! Fine! You win, I'm calling the mechanic," they go off for a spell. Then POW. Guess who's back, asshole? But they never indicate checking anything.

I used to take my car in whenever the Eye of Sauron glowed fiery from my dash and they'd look at it and say "Welp. Can't rightly see what the trouble is. Could be your gas cap wasn't screwed on right? I'll just go ahead and reset the light for you."

Gas cap? Go fuck yourself, check engine light. How about a light that says "Hey, your gas cap is loose, dumbass."

*I wrote this while waiting at the hospital for a transvaginal ultrasound with forty ounces of water sloshing around my body. Peeing is verboden. Quite a Monday I'm carving out for myself, people.