Could anything truly be wrong in a world containing both ColdStone Creamery and Gilmore Girls?

A lengthy title for an overly long day. I thank God for Gilmore Girls and ColdStone Creamery. A little ice cream and incessant blathering have cured (most) of my ills.

Is it possible to sum a day like today? I'll try. (Car trouble + Rude Mechanic - Transportation) x (LA County Fair School Days / Typical work frustration) + Job offer from amazing hospital x 2nd encounter with Rude Mechanic = Sexual harrassment claim. Did I over-react?

Perhaps, this needs a longer explanation. I had better start at the very beginning.

Just after turning 15 (legal driving age in my home state), I begged my dad to let me drive the car home. It was a standard transmission and I exaggerated my ability to operate the clutch. In a surreal moment, the car lurched backwards into the next car, owned by my father's secretary who had lost her home in a fire not five days earlier. My father's face became red with rage. He ordered me home, where I spent the next 12 hours sobbing hysterically in my mother's lap.

I refused to drive the car for a very long time. After an appropriately respectful period, my mother became insistent that I learn to drive standard. The next six months involved a lot of tears and patience. It also involved more intensive instruction in standard transmission than any person in the history of automobiles. I learned to love the feel of transmission, the flow of drive, and the speed of acceleration. When my parents finally sold the Red Nissan, I cried just a little.

Seven years later I needed to buy my first car. I'm a bit of a car jinx (longer alternate story), so I bought the most reliable car I could imagine: a Nissan Sentra. Standard, of course. From the moment I touched the clutch, I felt the same exhilaration I'd felt the day I finally mastered my dad's Red Nissan.

I remain a car jinx, so owning this car has not been easy. It's been overnight in the shop no fewer than six times since I bought it two years ago. (In a very wise move, I purchased an extended warranty and have vowed to sell it THE DAY the warranty expires.) The most recent night away occurred when the clutch hydraulics cable broke, so I got to meet the friendly AAA driver who was nice enough to tow my baby to the mechanic. The Baby-Honey-Sweetie Mechanic nearly drove the feminist in me to fits, but assured me (after convincing the lovingly naive little princess in me to purchase the $300 maintenance package) that my car would run perfectly to the end of the warranty. The fact that I believe these lies amazes me.

Not two months later, the clutch hydraulics cable came loose. In a fury, I coasted to the car shop and laid into every person who'd fed me a line of crap the last time I left my car in their care. I got really quick service. Sometimes, unfortunately, it takes a bitch to teach the mailman a lesson.

The dealership gave me a ride to the LA County Fair where I hosted a booth for the hospital. It was a long, hot, dry, windy day, but also a lot of fun because kids are always a lot of fun. In the middle of the day, I had a job offer from my dream hospital. With all the ups and downs, I ended the day tired, hot, thirsty and ready for home. After phoning the dealership, I learned my car was ready.

All the people who had seen my earlier fury turned away like the Red Sea as I approached the service island. I'll admit it was a bit of a rush. The service advisor greeted me with more than a little fear, and I liked the respect.

My baby jumped out of the garage. The Baby-Honey-Sweetie Mechanic hopped out. "Clutch feels bad to me," he said.

"Since that's why it was here, it had better feel pretty damn good," I snarled.

"Well, nothing against you women drivers, but I bought my wife a stick once and I swore I'd never do it again. You see, women tend to overclutch."

The story went on and with every word the rage inside me grew until all I could hear in my head was a shrill scream. The sound echoed in my tires as I proved I can pop a clutch as well as I ride it. The Mechanic was right, the damn clutch didn't feel much better. Of course, if I had been the uneducated, naive little girl he'd painted me to be, I wouldn't have had the sense to notice that.

I entered the door to my apartment calm but resolved to do the right thing. At the bottom of my invoice was an invite to share any concerns with the service manager. So, I did.

My sister cheered my decision. My mom was too tired to hear anything beyond the car-in-the-shop report. My conscience has kept me confused. For my fellow sisters, I am proud to stand and say that if I can understand human physiology, run a household, and plan for retirement, I can be treated with respect by car mechanics. For the mechanic about to face a horrible encounter with his manager, I feel a lot of guilt.

That guilt has been somewhat assuaged by Gilmore Girls banter (and much sighing for Luke and Lorelai) and ColdStone Creamery (Sinless Sweet Cream with raspberries and peanut butter). It's been a weird day. I think I'll go to bed.