Confessions of a Top Gear Groupie.

When first meeting my husband, it became apparent rather quickly that he has an obsession, borderline fetish, with fine automobiles and all their accoutrement. Mostly the fast variety, but he also has a soft spot for the rugged type as well - hey, kind of like me with men. I digress.

His ongoing affair with his Cadillac CTS-V deserves a post all to itself, so I won't go into detail about that here. What I need to do right now is come clean - to cleanse my girly self of this shame that I carry. The shame that I might just actually be a gearhead myself.

I came to this shocking realization a couple of weeks ago when I became mad over the fact that we missed our weekly (damn DVR!) fix of dry British automobile wit, courtesy of BBC America and the show Top Gear.

I love this show. It's like Car and Driver magazine mated with Monty Python - it's hilarious. I seriously don't know who I have a bigger crush on - Jeremy (needs to be a little younger) or Richard (needs to be a little taller), sorry James. And it did the impossible - it made me completely appreciate my husband's love for grown up Hot Wheels. There really are some incredible works of art on the road disguised as plain old vehicles that in less educated times I would have driven right pass without even a thought.

Sadly, tonight is the season finale, and soon I will have to get my fix through past episode marathons. But catch it if you can. BBC America, 7 p.m. central time. I promise, even if you don't know where your dipstick is, you will get a kick out of this show.