Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

I love machines. And it is this love that makes me want to understand each and every small nut, bolt and socket, especially, the cars I drive, which are Maruti Gypsy and Fiat Uno.
Now, this fascination would not be a problem or an issue, if I were just the right gender. But, due to the blessed fate of nature, I am a girl. Which basically means that I am continuously ridiculed, slandered and sometimes downright humiliated when I confess my love and my knowledge of vehicles.
Basically, being a girl, you are not allowed to take interest and know about certain things. Some examples of this are advanced electronic goods and how to handle them, shares and mutual funds and vehicles.
Garage mechanics refuse to believe that I know that the whirring sound, which comes after I stop my car, is because of the radiator fan turning off slowly after the engine has stopped, to ensure complete cooling and avoid hot shutdown.
Friends refuse to acknowledge the fact that I am not trying to be funny when I tell them that the inflation pressure recommended by the manufacturer must be followed and a few (less or) more pounds per square inch (PSI: the measurement for the pressure in tires) of air might lead to less mileage or reduced control, uneven and premature tyre wear, less mileage, poor braking, reduced control and handling.
Acquaintances refuse to stop asking me questions like Really? And you know that why? Are you absolutely sure? And the masterstroke of ‘ulta chor kotwal ko date’: Are you insinuating I am asking you all these questions just because you are a girl?
Not only this, people, who service my cars, refuse to follow the instructions, unless my husband reiterates them. Guys and girls, whose car has broken down by the roadside, would rather stand stranded than take my opinion on what they could do. Even the drivers that I have had, refuse to take my suggestions. I once recommended (the plain old Lifebuoy) soap as a sealant to stop the leak in the fuel pipe. We were in the middle of nowhere during a bleak night, and that was the only option we had. After a long and heated argument, and the inevitable use of the phrase: ‘my car so I do what I want’, the driver reluctantly agreed. But the sweet victory was mine when we didn’t hit a snag till the next morning, when we got to a garage and fixed the leak.
The bottomline is I love my vehicles. I take good care of them. Though I am not obsessed with them like some people are (I know of a guy who washes his bike with hot water in winter, and I must include my husband, who is really fussy about the position of the nozzle, which spurts the wind shield washer fluid), I like to believe that these complex machines must be treated with a little bit of respect. You take care of them, and they take care of you.