The Manifold

I tripped over an intake manifold when I walked into my bedroom that day. The husband was sitting on the side of the bed putting on his sock.  I was focused on the hole in his sock and missed seeing the manifold.

I should have known the manifold was there.

It had been in the bedroom for 2 ½ months.  

The husband and the challenges and consequences of his automobile obsession have been a part of my life for over 3 decades.  We survived an unattractive paint job on an old Plymouth, an all night clutch repair on a mid 70’s Pinto and a race against a federal security helicopter at 140 miles per hour. We can now laugh at the engine fire in Cleveland, the air conditioning failure in a 105 degree Idaho desert and a ‘69 Camaro runaway hubcap rolling down the toll road south of Chicago.  And someday, I am sure I will look back fondly on the mountainside dirt road, flat tire ordeal.

I was used to piles of car junk, I mean, important treasures, in the garage. I was used to mysterious charges from Jegs on my credit card, gallons of orange hand cleaner under the sink and the occasional carburetor on the kitchen counter. This latest automotive challenge seemed to cross the line, though.  There was an intake manifold for a 1969 Camaro in my bedroom and it was in my way.  I said to the husband, toe throbbing, not hiding my disapproval, “You know, normal people do not keep car parts in their bedroom!”

I saw the husband’s honest reaction in slow motion.  A perplexed look of hurt and confusion passed across his face. A look of shock settled in his eyes that stared back at me. Without any doubt in his mind, he innocently said,  “Oh, I really don’t think it’s that uncommon.  I think you’d be surprised.”

I told myself the husband was nuts. This manifold clashed with my bedroom decor and cluttered up the room. It needed to go.

 

I knew I’d have to resign myself to the hardships that come with being the wife of a car guy. I walked out of the bedroom that day, leaving the husband to put on his other sock. I walked past my piles of scrapbook material, my stacks of family photos and the sweatshirts and shorts I had thrown on the ground.   As I left the room I looked back at the 13 library books, an assortment of  magazines, 3 different kinds of lotion, 5 ibuprofen pills and numerous headbands that lived near my side of the bed. I picked up the mail and the phone, a bottle of water, a thermometer, two earrings and a candy wrapper and headed out of the room.

And as I reached the door I turned to the husband  and reiterated my point, “Normal people do not have manifolds cluttering up their bedrooms.”

"Has anybody seen the transmission?"

We have a car project at our house. When I say "we", I mean not me. Or the kids. When I say "car", I don't mean basic transportation. I mean a '69 Camaro drag racing car that has a name and is as much a part of the family as the pets are. When I say "project", I mean a significant negative drain on the bank account.

I received a call the other day. It was a message for my husband. Apparently, Dirty Dan the Tranny Man would be done working on the Camaro transmission in a few weeks. It would cost hundreds of dollars.

I had no idea the transmission was even out of the car.

It's not the first time my husband and I have been on two different pages concerning this car. At times I feel we are even speaking two different languages. I speak English. He speaks a mutated auto-geek, gearhead version of English.

Gearhead English
The rear end is the back end of the car and has its own gears. The carb is under the hood and has its own jets. The intake manifold connects the carb to the heads which are on top of the block. The rockers are on top of the heads. The main studs are on the bottom of the block. The quarters are in the back of the car. The tranny will be returned after we pay Dirty Dan the Tranny Man. Cash only, of course. My husband's dream is to cut a perfect light and finish the quarter mile race in 12.9 seconds with his newly restored sbc-which obviously means small block Chevy if you're a gearhead.

Wife English
My rear end is always a little too big and has it's own cellulite. The carb can either be whole wheat good or white bread bad. A jet is always an airplane. My intake is always connected to consuming too many carbs which my head said would taste even better with a little butter on top. A manifold seems like a dream since I have rarely had a man fold any laundry at my house. Rockers are on the top of the music charts. Olivia Newton John certainly thought John Travolta was a main stud in the movie Grease when she said, "Tell me about it, stud." Before I met my husband, the only thing I thought was on the block were the New Kids. Quarters are lost money underneath the seat of the car. Dirty Dan sounds like he should be on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted List with a $10,000 reward attached to his head. Cash only, of course. My dream is to have perfectly dimmed light during a romantic meal with my main stud of a husband where my intake of healthy carbs allows me to eventually have a smaller rear end. Oh, and during this romantic evening we won't talk at all about the letters sbc-which obviously mean sucks big cash, if you're a gearhead's wife.

Check This Out!
Justin Timberlake's song What Goes Around and accompanying video with Scarlett Johansson off of his most recent album "FutureSex/LoveSounds" will make you want to get up and dance.