I’m an independent gal.  A chickadee that can take care of herself.  I can change the light bulb in that high ceiling fan, open that stubborn jar of jelly and put three square meals on the table (or pay for those three square to-go meals).  But sometimes…if my feminist ass is completely honest…I wouldn’t mind tossing a good portion of those responsibilities in a strong, masculine lap.

It’s time to take my car in.  I’m due for an oil change (or maybe a taaaaaad overdue).  The tread on the tires…well, let’s just say a bowling ball has more traction.  And, I’m not sure it’s even worth mentioning, but there is this one other tiny little issue. Nothing major…just a slight grinding noise when I switch into third gear.  I’m sure it’s nothing.  But, it’s possible that…Dad?  (Excuse me for a sec)  Dad?  Everything alright over there, Pops?  Hmmm…it appears I’ve just given my father a coronary.

Look, it’s not totally my fault.  I mean really, have you SEEN the price of gas?  Or my energy bill…the one that’s tripled since April?  Or how about that ever-increasing grocery bill (healthy eating don’t come cheap).  I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that the remaining $13 in my bank account won’t quite cover an automobile overhaul.  Just a hunch.

So, I have three choices.  Bite the bullet and take the car in (the credit card company will thank me for that); risk engine failure or a blowout on the deathtrap that is 59 South; or…you guessed it…find me a man.  I’ve dodged marriage for 37 years now, but it’s starting to sound mighty appealing.

“Nikki…this is Gilbert.”

“Hi, Gilbert. Nice to meet you.”

“I prefer ‘Hoover’.”

“I…I’m sorry?  Did you say ‘Hoover’?

“Uh huh.”

“Does that have anything to do with the missing teeth…those two gone in the front and, whoa, look at that, it appears you’re clean out of ‘em on the bottom?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright…good, good.  Great.  So, ‘Hoover’, you know anything about cars?”

“I work the counter at Jiffy Lube.”

“Hoover?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you marry me?”

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