DATE: Friday, November 14, 1997             TAG: 9711130278

SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON   PAGE: 08   EDITION: FINAL 

COLUMN: OVER EASY 

SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg 

                                            LENGTH:   66 lines

TIRES, NOT WIPER BLADES, KEEP HUSBAND'S INTEREST

When it comes to maintaining a vehicle, nobody is more meticulous than my husband. He changes the oil every 3,000 miles, has the 36,000 mile maintenance done at 25,000 and replaces the brake linings at the first whisper of a squeal. He pokes and prods at hoses, belts and distributor wires monthly.

He is especially adamant about tire maintenance. He checks the pressure and does a visual inspection weekly. ``We need to get your car in for tire rotation and a front end alignment,'' he'll tell. ``There are patches of tread missing on the outside edge of the left front tire.'' I know where the missing tread is and so does the drive-in teller at the bank, but I humor him and get the work done anyway. The next week I cash another check and do in the newly rotated tire.

Maybe someday I'll figure out how to negotiate the drive-in without killing the tire. Or maybe my astigmatism will cure itself and I'll stop hitting curbs. In the meantime, Bill keeps muttering about tires not being made like they used to be and I keep taking advantage of the free rotation and alignment clause in our tire purchase agreement.

But tires, oil changes, brakes and belts are one thing. Windshield wiper blades are another.

The ones on his truck will enter their teens in May. They squeak, they squeal, they smudge, they streak. They miss the glass completely in 11 spots, have bare metal showing through in three.

This bothers Bill not at all.

It drives me crazy.

If a blade misses a spot, I want it changed before the next rainfall. If it makes a noise, I want it changed before it takes its next swipe. If I could change the blades myself, I'd do it. But you need to be 6 feet tall and have a 7-foot-reach for my windshield. I'm 5 feet and have the reach of a garden gnome with a growth hormone deficiency.

When replacements are needed the scenario usually goes something like this. ``Honey, I need new wiper blades,'' I tell him. ``OK, I'll get some,'' he says. ``When?'' I ask. ``The next time I go to Kmart,'' he replies.

Six months later he finally goes to Kmart. They're out of the size blades he needs. It's another six months before he makes a return visit. He finds the right size, buys them and lays them on his work bench. ``When are you going to put them on?'' I ask. ``As soon as I get a minute,'' he assures me.

Another six months pass. He hasn't gotten his minute. The blades are still on the workbench and my bad weather visibility is at zero.

Then I finally do what I did in last week's rain. I sneak into the neighborhood service station when I'm sure that Bill won't catch me. ``Change the blades and hang the expense,'' I tell the pump jockey. He changes the blades. I pay the tab and tear up the receipt, figuring that a man who never notices when wiper blades stop working will certainly not notice when they have been changed.

I park the car in the garage, cast a disgusted eye on the package of blades that are dry-rotting on the work bench and go in the house.

An hour later Bill comes home from work, walks through the garage and asks why I had the wiper blades replaced. How, I wonder, can the man who ignores bad blades for years, spot new ones from 20 feet away in a dark garage.

``Because I couldn't see,'' I tell him. ``I've got new ones out on the work bench,'' he says in a hurt voice. ``I was going to change them this weekend.

``By the way,'' he adds, ``would you get the tires rotated and the front end aligned some day next week? There are chunks out of them again.''

``I know,'' I tell him. ``I went to the bank today to get the cash to pay for the wiper blades.''

``What's that got to do with tires?'' he asks.

I don't answer.

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