Posted on November 14, 2011
No, not a transvestite. Not that kind of tranny.
I’m talking about the transmission for a 1982 Fiat Spyder Convertible.
This is the price you pay for marrying a Georgia boy who is also a shade tree mechanic. The tranny has been sitting in my kitchen for at least nine months. There is a radiator in the downstairs den, and a floorboard in my husband’s office.
When I married this man 34 years ago, he moved into my one bedroom apartment and stashed Triumph Spitfire parts in the walk-in closet. For some women the reality of marriage hits when they discover that their husbands don’t put the cap on the toothpaste. For me — it’s grease in the kitchen sink, and I’m not talking about vegetable oil.
Good thing there are fringe benefits.
