It is possible that I misled the internet just a little bit yesterday with this tweet:
So what if I wore a tight tank top to the auto parts store? The point is, a helpful young employee kindly installed the blinker bulb for me.
Here come the really shocking parts: it was intentional and it was not the first time.
Let me explain. As I was driving to my sister and brother-in-law's house on Sunday, my right turn signal started doing that double-fast blinky thing indicating that a bulb was burned out. I will check and see which one it is when I get to their house, I told myself, then I will ask whether there is an auto parts store nearby. I had to signal a right turn mere yards from my sister's house, meaning that naturally I forgot all about it by the time I parked.
So I was going to go to the auto parts store by my house on Monday. But then Melissa asked me if I wanted to come to her apartment for pizza her treat. And I was hungry and my internet was out, so I made my way to Casa Fascinating posthaste without passing go and without, since it was pouring rain, stopping for a blinker bulb. I spent pretty much all day there, most of which we spent, I kid you not, ignoring each other entirely. I brought my computer and she had hers and, well, thanks to the ADD, we are not girls who multi-task well.
Finally, on Tuesday mid-foisting my resume on various school offices, I stopped for a bulb. A lot of times, the guys at auto parts stores will offer to help you out with that kind of stuff, but it was a girl helping me and she seemed very concerned with which employee was leaving when so she could take her break, so I paid and took my bulb home. I was pretty sure I could handle it anyway. I had helped my dad put one in a couple of years ago and once we figured out which phillips-head screw the manual meant we should remove, it hadn't been that difficult.
I got home, changed out of my Please Hire Me outfit, and got to work. First order of business: find the page number for changing a turn signal bulb in the index of my owner's manual. Second order of business: check all of the pages around that number to discover which page it's actually on since NONE OF THE PAGE NUMBERS MATCH UP. This has made me a little crazy over the course of the six years I've owned this car.
I found the page eventually and just went ahead and removed all three screws in the general area, as well as the plastic wing nut thingy inside the trunk. Then I spent a rather embarrassing amount of time trying to get the big red plastic thing to come off the car. You know, the thing I sort of cut off in this picture from that post about my couch.
But come off it finally did and I was left only with the last step: turn the light socket counterclockwise and then pull it straight out. Turn. Pull. Pull. Pull. Not budging. Pull. Pull. (Repeat for, you know, a long time.) Realize in current agitated state, I'm likely to break it if I continue. Quit.
So I put the big red plastic thing back in place and decided I'd go back to the auto parts store the next day to see if I couldn't get someone there to get the damn socket out for me. I changed out of the Please Hire Me clothes before going back on Wednesday and yes, I happened to put on a tank top, but as those of you in the San Antonio area know, it is hot as hell and twice as humid around here these days. My purple tank top and I went to the auto parts store (I'm not being coy here about the name of it. It's not Auto Zone. Beyond that, I can't tell you what it is.) where we were actively ignored by four auto part store employees for quite some time.
Finally, a different girl from the one who helped me the first time told me she could come out and look at it as soon as she made two more phone calls. I was comforted to see that she also struggled with it for quite some time before finally getting the damn thing out. I'd say that I loosened it for her but that would be an out and out lie.
Unlike that tweet, which contained no falsified information, merely misleading information. Sure, nobody offered to help me. I had to ask. And the helpful young employee was not a boy. And the tank top likely played no part whatsoever. But I think we can all agree that the most important thing is that my tweet got twenty favorites, putting me on the first page of the Favrd Leaderboard for that day.
Because to be honest, the internet is kind of propping up my self-esteem these days. Maybe I can't get a job, but invisible internet people think I'm funny. Probably I can't put that on my resume though. You think?