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January 16, 2012

Garret Leiva: Satisfying my inner child

By Garret Leiva Community editor

NT — Life has its needs and wants. Occasionally there are unwanted purchases made in your name because someone else needs an excuse.

At least I didn't have the audacity to call it a late Christmas gift.

I recently resorted to an impulse buy on my spouse's behalf. My wife is now the proud owner of a 1984 Yamaha SS snowmobile -- even if the title is not in her name. She can only hope to unwrap a matching helmet for her birthday this week.

For 18 years my wife has endured my proclivity for shiny metal objects -- and rusty ones. Call me a simpleton, or merely a man, but I've never outgrown a childhood fascination with motorized vehicles. I still play with cars, trucks and the occasional snowmobile. Bigger the boy, bigger the toy's insurance, registration and garage space.

The problem is my inner child has access to a bank savings account.

Like a kid who brings home mangy cats, I have a well-documented propensity to drag the forlorn and abandoned into the garage. "Can we keep it?" says I. "It's just a little four-speed transmission left all alone with no place to go."

The latest project is a snow machine that rolled off the assembly line the same year as Apple Macintosh computers and Mr. T "A-Team" action figures. My wife sensed trouble when I went from "just looking" to hitching the trailer.

While some subscribe to the theory that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, I believe in full disclosure. I usually come clean in a public place, say a library reading room, or while driving through known sketchy cellphone reception areas.

My wife raised a suspicious eyebrow as I reasoned that with two snowmobiles we could ride together. The other sled -- a 1972 Ski-Doo T'NT -- doesn't have the best track record. The $50 machine harvested from a farmer's field runs more sporadically than a Rick Perry bid for president.

Proof of the male brain's inability to function on a higher level is found in certain classified ads. Aside from three-times-divorced-from-reality personal ads, all you have to look for is the possessive noun wife -- "Wife's over-under shotgun" or "Wife's mud-bog truck." Certainly there are spouses who own and enjoy firearms and 51-inch tires, but I suspect a fair share of these for- sale ads started out as XY-chromosome brainstorms.

Funny, you never see "Husband's Prada handbag" classifieds.

The latest garage fodder want is shined up and ready to go. The timing seems perfect since winter has finally started in accumulating flurry earnest. I'm sure my wife can't wait to hit the trail -- even if her helmet doesn't match the '84 paint scheme.

However, she might have to ride solo. There is a chance I could be too busy putting in that utility sink I've always wanted -- call it my late Christmas gift.

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