Car guys, gearheads, shade tree mechanics, wrenchers, petrolheads if you’re British…all one and the same. Crazy car guys. Let me tell you about the ones I know. Some are missing a piston. Some have over-active exhausts. A few don’t have their bearings straight while others just have a lot of highway miles on them. One is an airbag. Another one needs a pressure check. More specifically:
Wayne’s wife was looking for him to do some yard work. He’s out tinkering in his garage. She was calling out his name. What does he do? He hides in the trunk of the car he’s working on. Wayne actually admitted this to me….the wife of a crazy car guy. Junk in the trunk? No. Look for bodies.
Cars are their mistresses. They sneak around with them and bring them gifts. I don’t know who is more excited about the gift. The mistress or the coolant giver. They are more interested in the horsepower that their mistress puts out than their girlfriend or wife. They love to give them lube jobs. My hubby likes mistresses that aren’t good-looking on the outside but they have a good heart. Their voluptuous bodies are important too. Especially the dashboards and the rear ends. A rough exterior might be acceptable as long as they are not missing a piston. High RPMs are more desirable. They, themselves, might have a dead battery. Maybe they just need a charge. Or a tune-up. Some of these car guys have no cruise control. They will tell you this is their last one, no more and then the next week, they find another mistress. Their new all-time favorite. And…they bring her home. Shameful!
Have you ever heard a car guy conversation? It goes something like this:
“I sold the 356.”
” Why? For a 911?”
“No. Maybe an XKE or DB7. Or MT4.”
“MGBGT’s are nice. 280SL, sweet. How about a 2CV? Deux Chevaux, Primaquatre, Heynsdyk 2500, Borgward, Volga, Humber Super Snipe, Zaporozhets?”
Get the picture here? If you don’t know the language, you are lost. Like a needle in a haystack. And there is no way to fake it. Pinch yourself to keep your eyes from glazing over. Or just drink more wine and be a good listener. Or retreat at full speed to join the flock of “Normies”, the non-crazies who drive boring cars but that don’t give them too much grief. They can talk about things like the weather. Sometimes I wonder if car guys know any other language. Do they need to?
They share car photos like they are their children. Boasting with such pride over their accomplishments, their looks, their capabilities. Some of their children are named after the cars: Mercedes, Aston, Porscha, Royce, Enzo, Audi. I’m surprised (and relieved) that they haven’t yet named them Borgward, Talbot, Bugatti, Targa or Humber Super Snipe! “Hi, this is my son, Lamborghini and his sister, Topolino.”
Car guys are the only people that can get away with:
- “Hey kids, do you want some speed?”
- “Go home smart car…you’re drunk!”
- Car parts in the dishwasher.
- Buying an entire car in boxes that they are sooooo proud of.
- Refusing to take their car out into the rain.
- Parking in the most far away space. Ding prevention.
- Inebriated chest-butting and bidding at car auctions.
- Making their wives widows during car auction week.
- “Look what I just bought you, honey!” (a car that doesn’t run and looks like hell.)
- Hearing the muffler on a passing Porsche before he hears you.
- Classifying his cars that don’t run as your cars.
- Referring to a car half-buried in the dirt for years with flat tires and busted out windows as an orphan that so desperately needs a home.
- Tearing a car dashboard completely apart in a parking lot because of some annoying noise.
Car guy hubby spends hours every morning scouring the internet for parts (and of course the sum of these parts: the whole car). This search is not just for him but for every single car guy on the planet that he might encounter. During these sessions: bills paid? Not. Take out the trash? Not. Eat breakfast? Not. Hear anything I say? Not. Evacuate due to a house fire? Not. Fuhgettaboutit!
The giddy look on his face when his buddy Fed Ex brings him gifts is the emotion of sheer joy. It does not matter that he can’t remember what he just bought or where the other gifts are hiding out in his garage. It’s the thought that counts.
Born To Be Wild
He walks in, after driving a convertible with no windshield, with crazy eyes, wild hair and the grin of The Joker. The bugs in his teeth are not a problem. Just kidding. A joyride without the theft: driving with no particular goal other than the pleasure or thrill of doing so. It’s an addiction. He can’t stop. Steppenwolf told him, “Get your motor runnin’, head out on the highway, looking for adventure…”
The owner’s manual for a car guy is difficult to comprehend at first. Give it some time and your shock absorbers will be like new.