"I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, And I want it now." --Queen

Last Friday, I get the dreaded call from the mechanic. You know the one.

He reads me the laundry list* of problems and his voice gets kind of soft and implies that, given the car's advanced age and how much mileage is on it, maybe it's time to... give the car away... maybe to someone in the country... where it can run around on a farm and be happy.

It is a very sad time but I am, ultimately, a realist and I can not be without a viable car. And, by all reports, this is a great time to purchase a car.

At the first dealership, the salesman says "In a month, 50% of these cars will be gone and in two months they'll likely all be gone because we're really busy."

I take this opportunity to pointedly look around the empty showroom and take in the other salesmen who are clumped together talking about sports.

At the second dealership, I have this exchange with the manager:

Manager: What did you think of it?

Me: It's a fine car.

Manager: It is! And at a competitive price.

Me: It's more than I was planning to spend. I expect there's some flexibility in the price...

Manager:

Me:

Manager: I... might be able to come down $100.

Me:

Manager: If you're ready to sign.

Exsqueeze me? Have you read the papers? Heard about the economic downturn, by any chance? Run across some news stories about the automobile industry crisis?

$100? I spit on your $100.

At the third dealership, I find what I want and get it at a better price than even I anticipated. Because EVERYthing is negotiable. EVERY flippin' thing.



* Why is it called a "laundry list"? My laundry list would consist of whites, darks, and delicates. Not a long list at all. And, as long as we're talking about laundry, why is 90% of women's clothing labeled either "hand wash" or "dry clean"?**

** Confession: I eventually put almost every piece of clothing labeled "hand wash" in the washing machine on "delicate". You know what happens? The clothes get clean. But I digress.

"Go, greased lightnin', you're burnin' up the quarter mile" --Grease

[I watched the movie version of Speed Racer on a flight last year. Slick animation but BORRRRRRRing. They could have--and should have--lopped about an hour off it.]


I can be an ass. No, no, I can.

The other day I am sitting at a light, minding my own business, working out a plan to solve the economic crisis. I was this close to putting all the pieces together--something about turning all the foreclosed properties into Starbucks and harnessing the awesome power of squirrels--when...

An Expedition pulls up next to me.

Then, the driver pulls up over the stop line.

Then, while the light is still red, the driver does a false start.

Do I need more? I do not.

I wasn't in a hurry before but I sure am now. I hit the S on my gear shift to change into Sport mode and watch the light like my life depends on it. I'll be damned if this behemoth is going to get ahead of me. When the light switches, I leave the Expedition in the dust.

Why?

A) It's a flippin' Expedition, fergawdssake. It's ridiculously big, expensive, gas guzzling, and slow and here's my opportunity to drive home that point. (See what I did there? Drive home... nevermind.)

B) Why not?

and

C) I'm an ass.

My first husband was an ass, too. I can vividly remember us missing our exit because he had to prove that he wasn't going to get beat out by a revving car at a toll booth. And we had my parents in the car. Oh, that was a proud moment.

At least I never missed an exit because of my assiness.

Well, not yet.

Can I help it if I need to express this side of me?

...express... espresso! Squirrels on espresso! I gotta call Bernanke!

Man = mechanic

"We wipe your pipe
We pump your gas
We jack your back
We scrub your glass

So join the ranks of those who know
And fill your tanks with Texaco"*

Bless all of you for not responding to my last post with "Wait, you told your husband you were worried about your tires and he didn't take care of it?"

I don't expect my husband to take care of my car. That's because a) he has his own car to be concerned with, b) much like me, he knows almost nothing about cars** and c) it is not 1950.

My mother, on the other hand, a very intelligent woman who speaks five languages while I can sometimes barely speak one, expects my husband to know about cars, electronics and so on, simply because he is a man. She does not have this expectation of me, because I am not a man.

So, it is not uncommon for us to have a conversation like the following when we visit her:

Mother to Hubby: There's something wrong with my car.

Hubby: What's wrong with your car?

Mother: [Describes problem.]

Hubby: Have you taken it to a mechanic?

Mother: Not yet. I thought you could look at it.

Hubby: I could certainly look at the car. Literally. But short of setting the clock, I doubt I'd be of much help. I don't know anything about cars.

Mother, handing him the keys: If you wouldn't mind... See if you can fix it.

Hubby looks at me as if to say: What should I do now?

I look at Hubby and say to my Mother: He'll take a look at it.

Because what does it hurt to look?

He and I go out to the car and here's the thing: Where Hubby knows very little about cars, he is a very logical, methodical fellow. And often the problems she has are not so mechanically intensive. So, for example, he can sometimes un-stick a stuck seat lever by smacking it with his shoe.

We go back in and, because he thinks it's ridiculous, I proudly announce: He fixed it! Isn't he clever?!***

This reinforces her belief that he is a mechanical genius and, of course, this encourages her to come back to him the next time anything goes wrong.


* Actual words from the old Texaco song. Amazing, no? If you're so inspired, add a new verse.

** Unlike me, he has other talents that are much more valuable.

*** I'm all kinds of evil this way.

"I feel the need. The need for speed." -- Maverick

Over time, I've noticed that in men and in cars, I've come to require the same list of non-negotiable things (in no particular order):

• Not girly.
• Not all flash.
• Designed with intelligence.
  
• Tight turning radius.
• Solid.
  
• Agile and responsive.
  
• Able to go from 0 to 60 (or 70 or 80) or 60 to 0 in the blink of an eye.
• Doesn't get all shaky and fall apart if I push the envelope.
• Thrilling.
• Dependably consistent.
• Not jerky.
  

Notice how I didn't mention cup holders? I'm all kinds of classy like that.

Not too much to ask, now is it? It took me a long time to get clear on that but I am.

So, yeah, non-negotiable. You say I'm spoiled. I say I'm clear on objectives. Tomato, tomahto.

Wait, did somebody just call me a tomato? I hate it when I get objectified like that.