Car reprise

I hereby retract my apology in a previous post, in which I expressed remorse for unleashing ourselves on various car salespersons in the area. On the contrary, the salespersons have proven themselves well equipped to deal with clueless car buyers such as ourselves, in the sense that we come away from discussions with them feeling even more clueless. This, of course, is what they are trained to do. 

Our most recent salesperson evidently has taken an advanced training course in Bewildering the Customer. In this course, participants learn to wear customers down by simply talking on and on about the details of their own lives. We now know this woman's family intimately, including the heights of all her siblings, their complete history of parking tickets, and what her two children are getting for Christmas. We almost feel as if we should send the kids Christmas cards ("Hi, Jasmine. You don't know us, but we just thought we'd wish you a Merry Christmas. Do you want to know what your mom got you for Christmas? We can tell you where she hid it, too. We helped finance it, by the way.").

The tactic did not wear us down enough to beg her to sell us a car, although it did suffice to send us straight home after our visit instead of stopping at any of the nearby competitors, which we had fully intended to do. 

But her tactic may have been quite deliberate. All of her personal details were related as we were sitting in the car, giving us plenty of time to tune her out and become one with the car, visualizing zipping over mountain passes in it, imagining smoothly cutting through snow-covered roads. She probably hoped that we would bond so completely with the car that we would just refuse to get out of it, and demand that the manager get in the car with us to go over all the details so that we could just take it right home.

But we are wiser than that, of course. We stayed focused on the important things we want in a car -- e.g., that it has a sufficient number of cup holders. We voiced our relief at discovering that the car we were considering offered an extra two cup holders when the middle armrest in the backseat folded down.

"Oh, do you have little ones?" the saleswoman asked.

Um, no. Just us. 

As the Hero observes, our concern about always having beverages within reach would lead one to believe that we have been impoverished for most of our lifetime and are afraid that, at any moment, we might be deprived of life-nourishing liquids. Let me just say that we both were duly provided with adequate hydration during our bringing-up years and were in no way neglected in this respect. 

Another concern in a car, along with the cup holder count, is color. At least for me. The Hero warned that, particularly if we were to go with a used car, I might not get EXACTLY the color I wanted. 

This comment was met with such a stare from me that he began to worry that he might not EXACTLY get dinner that night, either, or any other night. Nothing further has been said on the subject of color.

And finally, a third important feature in a car is comfort, mainly because, like cup holder and color, it starts with c. Happily, the car we were considering is very comfortable, although if it had a bed and refrigerator it would be REALLY comfortable. But we wouldn't want to be too greedy.

Just as long as the ratio of cup holders to people is at least 3 to 1.

Nontraditional Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving, as usual, we and a large number of people we presume we are related to in some manner celebrated by eating too much. We were not allowed the customary post-Thanksgiving recovery period, however; we were not even done eating yet when a Series of Events was announced by certain Young Persons in attendance.

We were given a choice of activities: We could participate in a bowling tournament in the family room, attend a fashion show in the living room, or patronize the child-run bakery downstairs. There was no fourth option, but I suspect that certain adults, in an effort to get in on some of that recovery period, climbed into one of the vans in the driveway for some shut-eye.

I signed up for the bowling tournament, envisioning those little plastic bowling sets with the pins that can be knocked down by an ant. Instead I was given a Wii controller and introduced to my character, a brunette with pigtails and glasses and hands, but no arms. (Sometime later we also discovered that none of the girl characters were, strictly speaking, wearing pants, whereas ALL of the male characters were fully clothed, even though they no more had actual legs than the females. We thought this highly unfair and lodged an official complaint, which was thrown out on a technicality.)

I won the preliminary round of bowling and moved on to the finals, which I also won despite no prior experience in bowling without the benefit of arms OR pants. My victory drew admiration, although it also caused my arm to throb for two days. Had I been interviewed about my win, the headline would have read: "Bowling champ injured while engaging in fake sport."

I later visited the downstairs bakery, run by two sisters, and a subsidiary store run by their younger brother. The girls graciously gave their brother a great deal of business by sending their own customers to him, but only after the customers had purchased something at the bakery and had consumed it. "When you're done with your cupcakes," they told us, "we don't have anything more to do with the food. You can take it to his store," pointing at the Tiny Male Relative. "He'll take care of it."

This prompted the Hero's later observation that, although the young male proprietor believed he was running a market, he was "actually the garbage man."

"But an elegant one," I noted. "The garbage was delivered to customers on silver platters."

So on Thanksgiving we filled up on fake food and hurt ourselves playing fake sports. What more can you ask for?

Serving notice

I apologize to all the car salespersons in our area, upon whom we are about to unleash ourselves in our quest for a new car. We have already accosted two of them, and they are undoubtedly at this very minute seeking either a) a new profession, b) a new therapist, or c) both.

It's not hard to see why. We ask deep, thoughtful questions that cause the car salespeople to pause, ponder, and in some cases reach for a bottle of Tylenol. For example, if a salesperson starts talking about such car features as torque, we might frown in concentration as he explains, and then ask one of those deep clarification questions, such as "Is that available in different colors?"

This is not to say that we don't do our homework on car buying. For example, as I drive I have studied the cars around me to the point where I can now recognize my favorite models, causing me to say, "Look, a  CX-5!" and swerve dangerously as I try to get a closer look to confirm that yes, it is indeed a CX-5, and the driver is now looking alarmed and is likely calling 911 on his Bluetooth to report a deranged driver.

One reason it is so difficult for us personally to buy a car is that the last time I was car shopping, cars had far fewer options. Either you could get the Flintstones model, with foot power, or the Dino model, foot power plus an extra turbo boost. The Hero's car dates to a much more modern time, roughly the Model T era. So we are understandably overwhelmed by the vast array of car options available today, including -- we were actually told this by a salesperson -- headlight technology that is used on spaceships.

Car salespeople have been known to be pushy, of course. It is not a requirement that you have actually met a salesperson for this to be true. In a span of a day and a half, I have received severald emails from three different salespeople at a particular dealership in which I have yet to step foot. The communication from them, beginning on a Monday, progressed thus:

Salesperson 1: We pride ourselves on providing our customers with a superior shopping experience. [Princess's note: Does this mean they have free samples of chocolate? And foot massages?] We are confident we can meet your expectations. Would it be convenient for you to come in next Sunday?

Salesperson 2, a couple of hours later: My manager [Salesperson 1] has informed me that you'll be in on Wednesday. I'm sure we can find just what you're interested in, take it for a test drive, and, hopefully, you'll be driving away in a new car.

Salesperson 2, one hour and thirteen minutes later: Did you get my earlier email? Cars are flying off the lot. You'd better hurry while there's still some choices available. We're all set for your visit tonight, or would it be easier for us to bring the car to wherever you are?

Me: Pick up my Thanksgiving turkey and a large pizza on your way here, and you've got a deal.

Of course I did not actually respond in this way, but I admit that the idea of them bringing the car right to you seems a stroke of genius. They drive a brand-new car to your house, park it prominently in your driveway, and let you strut around it while they go and knock on the doors of curious neighbors to invite them over. Tell me you are going to turn this car down if they ask whether you want to buy it.

Salesperson: So, ma'am, to make things a little smoother we brought all the paperwork with us --

You: Yes! Yes! Where do I sign?

Neighbor, reading paperwork over shoulder: Say, it's a little blurry -- is that 5% financing, or 50%?

Salesperson, shoving neighbor behind a bush: Ha ha! I think we can take care of the rest without an audience, don't you, ma'am? Now if you'll just sign right here...

It's important to keep the high-pressure tactics in perspective, however. You want to buy a car. The salesperson wants to sell you a car. But here your mutual goals end. Your goal is to pay as little as possible for your dream car. The salesperson's goal is to retire and have enough money to employ a personal valet who will carry him aloft on a litter to his pool at his house in Tuscany.

So, as we continue our own search for a car, we are mindful of one thing: We must wear down the salesperson first, or we might be the ones carrying him to the pool on that litter.

Who does what?

Marriage experts advise that when determining who will be responsible for various chores, one factor to consider is the level of comfort or skill one partner or the other has with a particular chore. If your partner loves to cook, it makes sense for him or her to do most of the cooking if that works for the household schedule. 

But this does method have its flaws. Some people -- who often happen to be men -- may try to foist an unpleasant chore on their partners by means of flattery: "Oh, honey, you are SO much better than I am at folding the shirts and pants and underwear and socks and putting them back in the SAME drawer every time! How do you DO that? You really should be the one to do that regularly. I'll just mess it up."

They secretly suspect women have a gene for cleaning toilets, or changing diapers.

In our house, anything that is routinely used in the same sentence with digital or electronic is typically understood to be in the Hero's realm of expertise. Thus, anything to do with the computer, TV, cable, Internet, stereo, etc., I leave for him to handle. I am SURE that he has a gene for this. (I do, however, take responsibility for resetting the time and date on the phone whenever the power goes out, mainly because he does not care if it gets reset or not.) 

There is another method of handling chores, however, and that is that whoever complains about an issue in the household is the one who becomes the de facto Dealer with the Problem. This unfortunately was the case recently when I complained -- once too often, apparently -- about our Internet going down multiple times a day. 

"Call the company," the Hero suggested. 

So I did, although the reader may infer that much more conversation on this topic -- which is not being reprinted here -- transpired between the Hero and myself before my call.

Here is how my conversation with a representative of our service provider went:

Rep: And what can I help you with today?

Me: Our Internet goes down several times a day.

Rep: Oh! That is NOT good. I'll be glad to help you try to fix that. First, do you have a router?

Me: [looking at four large boxes in the vicinity of the computer] Hmmm, eeny, meeny, miney, moe...okay, miney must be the router.

Rep: I beg your pardon?

Me: Uh, that was a yes! Yes, we have a router. [crossing fingers that this is true]

Rep: Okay. Is your modem connected to your computer through the router?

Me: Sure! [have no idea what she's talking about]

Rep: Okay. The modem needs to be directly connected to your computer so we can adjust the signal.

Me: [getting nervous] You know, maybe we should do this another time. I think the dinner is burning. I'd better go check. 

Rep: Uh, it's only 10 a.m. in your time zone.

Me: Wow, I see flames! Bye!

This brings us to the third method for determining who does what in the household: If you mess something up, you are generally absolved from further handling that particular chore.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and exercise my gene for eating cookies. I'm pretty sure I have one.

Extreme sports

As part of a recent airplane flight, at no extra charge, we passengers were able to experience the thrill of Extreme In-Flight Bumps and Dips. This was unannounced, probably because it is illegal for the pilot to say something truthful like, "Ladies and gentlemen, we will now embark on a reign of terror."

But that is exactly what happened. The experience included great sound effects, what with the plane's metal creaking and screeching and a voice inside my head yelling, "WHEN will you listen when I tell you to drive instead of fly??"

I wished someone would yell outside my head, because then I would have felt that I could scream too. But I didn't want to be the first. Second only to my fear of crashing is a fear of showing fear in front of other people. Everyone else appeared calm, so I channeled all my fear into praying and -- because the Hero was not there -- into the poor, innocent armrest on my right. Sometimes people like to hog the armrests in airplanes. This is understandable, but you really do not want to do this when seated next to me.

The Extreme Sports experience lasted approximately 3 hours, which is quite amazing considering that the total flight was only 1 hour 45 minutes. After the plane had returned to some sense of normalcy, the woman next to me turned and said, "You did really well." I nodded weakly. She didn't realize what a narrow escape she had just had, sitting next to me during turbulence. Had I known her better -- say, if I'd said hello to her at the beginning of the flight -- I would have grabbed her arm during the disturbance and, possibly, not have let go until the flight attendants came to pry my hand off.

She would have been totally justified in seeking a refund from the airlines:

Passenger: I would like to request a full refund for my recent flight on your airline.

Airline representative: And what is the reason for your request?

Passenger: I specifically asked to be seated in the No Passengers Who Get Queasy or Who Flip Out section.

Rep: And you were subsequently not seated in this section?

Passenger: Let's just say the doctor told me I may never regain feeling in my right forearm.

Rep: Oh, you sat next to HER...we'll get that refund to you right away, Ma'am.

After getting off the plane, I wondered where I should go to pick up my "I survived Flight XXXX" pin. Instead, I picked up my luggage and headed, unknowingly, into another Extreme Method of Travel: the taxi ride.

I will keep the description of this second experience brief. Have you ever wondered how insects and spiders can cling to upside-down surfaces, like the inside roof of a taxi? I don't know the answer, but I know that a person can perform this feat, too, given enough terror-fueled adrenaline. 

So, you don't have to be an athlete to enjoy extreme sports. Just head to your nearest taxi, or plane, and let the good times roll. And make sure there's an empty armrest.

The Princess travels

I recently returned from a work conference in a faraway city, where I spent most of my time being in the wrong building, getting on the wrong elevator, and wondering why, when I clearly was not using all the little shampoos and conditioners and other freebies in my hotel room, housekeeping kept stocking more little shampoos and conditioners and other freebies.

Not that I am complaining. We do not receive mysterious deliveries of little shampoos and conditioners and other freebies at home. And the Hero, attentive though he is, is not in the habit of bringing me a lovely dinner on a tray as they did at the hotel, but if he did, I am sure he would not charge $33 for a burger and fries. So it all evens out in the end.

This conference took place in the South, which is known for its hospitality and homestyle cooking, in which white bread features prominently. At least it did in the hotel and conference center, where mornings traditionally began with an egg and cheese biscuit. Not every morning, of course. Some mornings there was an egg and cheese and bacon biscuit, whereas other days we were treated to an egg and cheese and sausage biscuit. 

While I was away the Hero kept a close watch on the house, particularly the contents of the fridge and freezer. One night by phone he inquired about what was involved when I cleaned the house. "I always make sure I at least clean the bathroom," I said, thinking we would start small.

"Right. Clean toilet."

Here we expanded upon the other items generally residing in a bathroom, ours included, that also needed attention. Tub. Counter. Sink. Floor. Etc.

"Okay," the Hero said gamely.

My co-workers were impressed with his initiative, and the next day they inquired of me how the cleaning was going. I said I would ask when I called him in the evening.

"How's the cleaning?" I asked him that night.

"It's not Saturday yet," he answered quickly. "I'm going to clean on Saturday." There was a pause. "Do I need to wash any clothes?"

More points with the co-workers. And me.

All in all, it was a good conference. I came home to a fairly clean house, and even some food remaining in the fridge and freezer. ("I had KFC one night," the Hero confessed.)

Now I can relax until next year's conference, and more white bread.

The transformer coat

As the seasons change and we circle around once again to cooler weather, so the Hero and I have circled around to a recurring discussion: outerwear. For my part, I argue for the need to have multiple coats or jackets for various occasions and types of weather. The Hero believes this is a false need, bordering on obsession, on my part.

"We don't have room for so many coats," he argues, which is true. In 1840, around when our house was built, people were not into building giant closets, because they knew that doing so would only encourage their adult children who had houses of their own to store stuff there. Besides, there wasn't any space to build closets, so they hung their coats on pegs in the living room, since there also wasn't any space for an entryway. This rich heritage has been handed down until the present, and our coats, too, reside out in the open, hanging from Shaker-style pegs fashioned by the Hero. 

But the problem is not really that we have too many coats. It's that we don't have neat-looking coats that would make the out-in-the-open coat display look interesting. Our rack of coats, in fact, could look like a Pottery Barn ad, if only we had really cool coats and accessories, like a plaid flannel jacket, a bright yellow rain slicker, polka-dot rain boots, a vintage child's red wagon, a medium-size friendly dog, etc.   

I sometimes find myself searching these Pottery Barn ads for any hint of where they might have obtained the cool coats and accessories in the photos ("Yellow rain slicker, Shop Here, $85, www.shophere.com").

Maybe the Hero has a point about the obsession thing.

He would love to decree a one-coat per person policy, which he believes would work if each of us could find just the right coat. The following is an ad in pursuit of that goal that describes the coat characteristics needed. 

Wanted: One all-purpose coat, or jacket, smallish size to fit my wife. Coat must come with removable liner and hood to be suited to various outdoor temperatures. Must be able to shrink and grow to accommodate more or less bulk underneath as clothes are layered or removed for varying seasons. Coat must also be able to grow and decrease in length, as dictated by the current weather, by some mechanical or electrical or magical means. It must suit both casual and dressy occasions. In rain or other precipitation, coat must self-activate a rainguard protective coating that deactivates once the threat is past.

Or, in the event such a coat is not possible, perhaps a medium-size friendly dog...

Decisions, indecisions

Whenever the Hero and I are facing a large purchase -- some electronic gizmo, a new car, or an island somewhere in the Pacific (not really, but wouldn't that be nice?) -- we find ourselves hampered by an innate flaw: the inability to spend large amounts of money quickly. 

It is not necessarily an inability to part with money -- I in particular am quite skilled at that, and the Hero is making progress -- but we cannot do so without commencing a long, complicated process. In some cases, by the time we have finally decided to commit, the item in question is no longer on the market.

If ever we were to acquire a substantial sum of money in some nefarious manner, and had to get it off our hands in a hurry, we would be doomed. The authorities pursuing us for our crime would quickly catch up with us in the digital camera section at Best Buy and arrest us before we'd had a chance to decide on a purchase. "What do you think?" the Hero would shout to me as we are both led away in handcuffs. "Optical zoom? digital zoom?" 

"I don't know!" I would yell back. "Do you think we need full HD video?"

We estimate that we have spent a collective 23 years researching various items. Sometimes our inability to commit monetarily in a timely manner extends to smaller purchases as well. We admit, for example, that the slow cooker probably was researched as much, if not more, than the new car that was purchased around the same time. The research appears to have paid off: Unlike the car, the slow cooker does not wake us up in the middle of the night with a shrill alarm, nor does it attempt to hold us hostage by refusing to release the keys from the ignition. 

We are now facing the necessity of buying a new car for me. Actually, we have been facing this for a couple of years now. The car still goes, so we keep putting off that decision just a little bit longer. The car, however, is giving us hints that it is not interested in going for much longer. The exhaust system is deteriorating. The car does not like to start in cold weather. It does not like me to poke around in the keyhole with the keys in cold weather. The car is saying, "Look, I'm old. I'm ready to retire and move to Florida, hang out in the sun, go to the beach, you know. It's time for us both to move on."

So far I have been impervious to all the car's efforts to retire, begging it to hang in there for just one more season. But lately it has brought out the one weapon --besides not starting at all -- that it knows will bring me down.

"Time to look for a new car," I said to the Hero. "The CD player only works above 50 degrees."

And so, if we don't spend some money quickly, I might be seen commuting in a Go-Kart. Except it would take us just as long to decide on a Go-Kart as it would on a car.