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
LOCATION: Campbell residence, late afternoon.Gear-head is clutching cell phone in a death
“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?”
Me:“I’m going to the
hair salon.It’s a nice day.The Vette could use some exercise.”
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.