Sunday, 14 August 2016

Life with a Gear-Head (in which Bad Girl...what the poop, just read it)

By Melodie Campbell (Bad Girl)

 I live with a gear-head.  I even sleep with him.  This has been going on for three decades. 


You‘d think I would be used to it by now.  And no, I’m not talking about the ‘shifting gears and vroom vroom’ noises during sex.

LOCATION: Campbell residence, late afternoon.  Gear-head is clutching cell phone in a death grip.

“OH MY GOD!!  NO! THAT IS TERRIBLE!” <hyperventilating, pacing, red face, horror struck eyes>

“What?”  I leap from the couch, heart pounding.  “What is it?  Is it one of the kids?  Are they hurt?”   

Gear-head turns to me, his face a painful sight.  He can hardly get the words out. “The Mustang has a flat tire.”

“Oh,” I say, turning back to my book.

There are advantages to being married to a gear-head.  For instance, you never have to worry about buying a car.  The gear-head will research the choices, preselect the possibilities, do the test drive, make the deal with the seller, and basically handle all parts of the buy-process. You, happily, just need to grab the keys from him.

This may be easier said than done.  Witness the following scene that took place after my (it’s in my name, dammit) recent purchase of a 2006 Corvette Convertible.  Which, incidentally, has been washed to within an inch of its life.

Me:  “Do you have the keys to the Vette?”

Him (suspiciously):  “Why?”

Me:  “I’m going to the hair salon.  It’s a nice day.  The Vette could use some exercise.” 

Him (aghast):  “You’re going to DRIVE it?  On the ROAD?”

Me:  “I certainly plan to stay on the road.  Anything else would be called ‘an accident’.”

Him (choking):  “You’re going to park it in a PARKING LOT?”

Me (sighing on schedule):  “I generally prefer that to ditches.  The keys please?”

Him (turning away): “Not sure where I put them.”

Me: “I can see them right there on your bureau.”

He grasps them to his chest.  What ensues then is a to-the-death struggle that only breaks up when I change strategy and grab the keys to HIS car off the shelf.

“No fair,” he says gasping for air.

“All’s fair in love and cars,” I reply philosophically.


  1. I've learned early on to not drink coffee and read your blog posts at the same time. This is too funny. My husband is the same way with his old Mustang convertible. He and I have been together for nearly 20 years, and he's never let me drive his car. NEVER.

    1. Sheri, I am laughing! And doesn't that figure we'd both be attached to THAT sort of guy (the muscle-car kind). They really should meet.

  2. LOL. I have the same issue in my house...