I know a lot about seemingly stupid stuff. Depending on the audience, I can be a decent to excellent resource for all things Harry Potter, Seinfeld, How I Met Your Mother, Disney Pixar, Ireland, grammar, literature, board game, iPhone, and chocolate related topics. And to my enjoyment, many of these subjects find their way into my daily conversations.
So, let’s talk about cars. I’m great at opening the sun roof on nice days and blasting a good radio station, but ask me much more about my Civic, and you’ll find me speechless– literally incapable of speech (due to a lack of knowledge). To my credit and thanks to Papa, I can change a tire in pit-crew competitive times. But that’s only because my car very conveniently tends to get flats on those days I’ve volunteered to drive or am expected somewhere at a certain time: New Year’s Eve party, team picnic, Memorial Day parade, the list goes on. Let’s just go with “everything happens for a reason” and move on.
On Friday morning, two of my lovely friends and I gathered around the open hood of Rhonda, my Honda Civic. To be honest, it took us a few minutes to even figure out how to get that far. We knew I/Rhonda had a dead battery. I had already rented the “jump box”, as we’ll call it, from Public Safety in return for holding my SC ID card hostage. Public Safety had kindly printed out some directions to this “jump box”, but to our reading ability, they were either written by a four year-old or translated to English from Japanese on a free online translator. They made no sense! There were misplaced modifiers and mixed-up verb tenses everywhere. I can hardly thing of a situation when some transition words like “first” and “then” would be more useful. This electricity we’re talking about– order of operations seems kind of important!
Take three English and Education majors and place them in front of a malfunctioning car and this is what ensued: half of our time consisted of straight-faced contemplating at what we thought would solve the problem, and the rest was hysterically laughing at how clueless we actually were, even with these so-called directions. To wrap up the comical event, we eventually got Rhonda running with the leery supervision of an officer passing through the campus parking lot. Turns out we had the clamps connected to rubber tubes. Third grade science lessons about rubber not being a conductor of electricity came rushing back to us like the volts running through those live wires. You may call this a blonde moment, but I’ll take the high road and say this was a real-world learning experience. Add “jumping” a car to my list of expertise!