Let's start off by saying I know I should not own a car and live in New York City, so perhaps the following tale of automotive woe is my penance for such frivolity.

The car in question, a beloved 1996 red Jeep Cherokee with nearly 120,000 miles on it, hadn't given me much trouble in the six years I owned it, despite my driving it across the country twice and through the Colorado Rockies countless times. Then one day, on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, it overheated and starting making this horrible clacking noise.

Enter the mechanic.

It's not like he was some sexist pig, mocking my femininity as I clunkered into the shop. He was friendly, explaining to me that it was a holiday weekend and that he probably wouldn't get to my car until Tuesday. "I know just what the problem is," he crooned. I believed him. Mistake.

I don't doubt that they were busy. I don't doubt that the nature of my car's problem was hiding somewhere in the engine. What I do doubt is that it really took eight weeks to find and fix the problem.

Everyone I knew said that I was hoodwinked. And the reason was, um, genetic.

I was a woman.

Clearly, they said, if a man were to saunter into a mechanic's shop, he would be shown due respect, given a leather arm chair for repose while they immediately fixed his car in record time for a bargain price.

But since I'm a 28-year-old girl, I was getting the run-around.

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NICE HEADLIGHTS

Mechanics have a reputation of taking advantage of women, charging them more, slothing around, condescending. My college roommate was almost charged double for a new fuel filter until she marched back in, threatened a sexual discrimination suit and got the cost reduced.

A friend in Denver was charged $75 for a routine oil change, usually about $25.

And one guy tried to fix the back breaks on my mom's car even though they weren't broken.

Was I falling victim to the gender rule? Was Joey the mechanic honestly giving me the run-around because I was female?

I was strangled with frustration, but there wasn't much I could do; they were holding the Jeep hostage, its guts splattered all over the dirty cement floor.

The first two weeks were spent in a perpetual state of panic. Every day I called to find out the official damage. Everyday the mechanic said he'd call tomorrow and he never did. Family arrived at the airport. I wasn't there to get them. My friend needed help moving; I couldn't go.

I heard from Joey the beginning of Week 3. The cost would be about $1,200, it was a cracked head gasket. But then nothing, for weeks. I called. They stammered.

The car had become a symbol of my wimpy girlhood. If only, people argued, I'd let a man do the talking. Then I'd get the car back tomorrow. I even wrestled the phone away from my angry uncle: "You don't know what they are talking about!" he argued. "I can translate."

I consulted 10 other mechanics across the U.S. on the gender question, in part to make myself feel better and in part to get my family to can it. They weren't much help; most of them told me they treat all customers with fairness, blah blah blah. One guy did admit that if you look like you don't know your piston from your brake fluid that you're likely to have your car in the shop longer, maybe a few more bucks tacked on.

I clung to that response. Ah-ha, I thought. It's my lack of knowledge. It's not my sex.

Either way, I was sick of getting screwed. I needed to take control.

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SHOW ME YOUR HEAD GASKET

I researched the head gasket and the head, and what happens when it malfunctions. I called and consulted other mechanics on possible cost. I walked to the shop to have them show me what they were doing to the Jeep.

I insisted on a free rental car when my car wasn't ready for a planned road trip. I remained firm, but never got nasty.

Just a week after the attitude adjustment, the car was done. I'm not sure if it helped, but it eased my state of mind. The auto shop didn't charge me a penny more then the estimate, and they changed my oil for free, profusely apologizing for the trouble.

When I picked the car up, I asked Joey flat out if they took advantage of me because I was a girl. He said no.

I think, probably, it was more about my wimp attitude and less about my gender. The more I took charge, the faster the car was ready.

As I drove out of the shop I heard Joey talking to an unsuspecting male customer: "I know exactly what the problem is," he crooned.

Oh boy.

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asap contributor Colleen Long is a reporter in The Associated Press's New York City Bureau.

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