Speakin' my language

I don't know what it is about cars that makes them so much easier for guys to understand--or maybe I'm just one of those girls who's hopeless when it comes to mechanical discussion--but time after time I have given life to the expression "Women don't understand cars."

My older brother is an auto technician. He's good at it too. So naturally when confronted with the sinking reality of something possibly being wrong with my Mr Knightley Jeep, he is the first person I contact.

How wonderful, you might think, to have a tech when you need him. It is wonderful--when he speaks English.

Not just any English--single woman English. The kind that relies on emulating sound and feel, rather than terms and logic.

Like when my brakes needed to be worked on-- I mentioned something seemed wrong, and his question was something about roters and brakepads, which might as well have been translated into "ABbababababababababdadadadadadadada" in my female brain.

Five minutes into the conversation, faced with naught but blank stares as a reply from me, he changed tactics.

"What kind of noise is it making? How does it feel when you hit the brakes?" He then began to demonstrate the different noises he meant, and the different feels.

Ah, much better. This I could relate to. Our conversation did rather resemble three year-old boys playing cars and making the noises for every action, but he didn't seem to mind, so neither did I.

I did get my Jeep fixed--but not before thanking God for grown brothers who care more for helping their sisters and Mom, than sounding mature at all times.