Maybe someday, my Hubs will pay attention, and take it seriously, when I tell him that there's something wrong with my car. Case in point:
I had a Linclon that he had bought for me, it was silver. It had a vinyl roof, that had tears in it; it looked like Freddy Cruger had tried to get me, and I'd gotten away just in time. One day, I was out by Sylvan Lake, where his mom and stepdad still lived. I got in the car, and shortly after starting out, the car started shuddering hideously. The vibration was horrible. I drove as far as my mom's house, where I stopped to use the phone and call my Hubs.
This was in the long ago times, before we had cell phones. Hubs was a mechanic back then. He told me that it was probably an air bubble in one of the tires, that can cause a vibration. I insisted it was more than that, this shuddering was really bad. He told me to drive it to the garage, in Hyde Park, and he would take a look.
My mom lived on Wappingers, and it was at least 20 miles to the garage. I got back in the car, and drove off. By the time I got to the garage, my ass was n.u.m.b. It also took much longer than the usual 40 or so minutes, since I discovered that the faster I went, the worse the shuddering got.
I finally pulled into the garage parking lot, and went inside. Hubs took my keys, and took the car for a test drive. He wasn't gone more than 30 seconds. He came back with a very grim look on his face. Apparently, he thought I was exaggerating the vibrations.
He pulled the car directly into the garage, and right onto a lift. As he found out when he actually looked at it, the drive shaft was broken. Let me repeat that: THE DRIVE SHAFT WAS BROKEN. You would think that might teach him to listen to me, but no. For tomorrow's installment, I have another car related story!