Alack, alas, it was not to be. The Sprinter didn't work out, so we went with Plan B.
Plan B had historically been Plan A for most of our lives, and unlike my uterus it WAS revived yesterday.
On our way up to LA to look at the three cars that we had picked out, Lars and I discussed our negotiating plans, our bottom lines and our upper limits. We went to the first lot, test drove the car with a moon roof, I did the talking per Lars' request and then went to the next lot. (The first lot was a for-sale-by-owner lot, so the guy that owned the place was not the salesman he simply acted as intermediary).
On our way up to the next lot, in a not so nice area of LA, we reviewed our bottom line and steadfastly agreed how the deal would go down. Our terms or walk away. Our terms.
So, we trot over to the car where, Juan, the slippery salesman lecherously eyes us. He pops open the trunk end, the engine, shows us the seats and then sends us on our way for the test drive. Lars and I review our plan again, our set-in-stone plan. I slapped Lars on the back and gave him a you-can-do-it smile. He weakly smiled back at me as the color drained from his face, we pulled into the lot and then he turned to me and frantically whispered, "I can't do it, you do it."
Ugh.
Now here is the moment in my life where I can choose to pass it back to my strapping man-of-a-husband and tell him all about gender theory. I could be a weenie, too. Or, I could show the world how it's done, write the manual and make millions. This would be the first time I've bought a car without calling my dad first, but we just bought our first California house without his input (always had it with the other houses) and I was feeling like I could DO it! I'm choosing millions! No weenies for me!
I hopped out of that cute little ol' car, strutted over to the engine where I opened up the hood, hands on my hips I said things like "hmmm, err, pwwwshh," and all those manly noises that go with car buying. I kicked all the tires with my flipped-flopped feet and didn't even flinch. Then I walked over to Juan, crossed my arms in front of my ginormous ta-tas, looked him in the eye and said, "Juan, we'll take it. And, Juan, my amigo, I will pay you the full price that you have listed on the front of that vehicle."
Juan smiles at me.
"But, Juan," I say "that's out-the-door. I'm talking tax, I'm talking title and I'm talking licensing."
His face falls, he throws his hands up in the air. We go back and forth, back and forth. He comes down a scooch, I come up a scooch. We get to our upper limit, I use the Hail Mary of, "Juan, see, here's the deal. I've got a husband and four kids to support. I know you don't want them going shoeless. My little girl wants to take ballet, Juan. See Juan, if I pay you that price, then basically what you're asking me is to tell my little girl that she's never gonna be Maria Tallchief. Now Juan, I appreciate what you're telling me. I can see that it's a nice car. I really can. She's drives real good, Juan. But this is my bottom line."
Juan stutters. He tells me he can't go any lower. I pick up baby Tova and I walk outta there, the superhero that I am. But wait, something is not right. My husband is still standing there, mouth agape, staring at Juan and the vehicle beside him. I get in the car, I yell to Juan/Lars,"you have our number Juan, so you just go ahead and call us when you change your mind. WE'RE LEAVING NOW!"
Lars slowly walks over. He gets in the car and shuts the door. Then he turns to me, and in the voice of a mother deeply disappointed in her child he says, "Kelly."
Wh-wh-what?!
'Scuse me?
Super-hero-money-saving-million-dolla-momma say what?
We start driving back to the southbound highway. I demand Lars for an explanation of his "Kelly," comment. He says, we shoulda bought it. Water filled his eyes.
We agreed! We agreed ahead of time. We said we wouldn't go over our limit, not for nothin', not for one dollar and not for one penny. No way! No how! I did what HE was supposed to do and then got the "Kelly" for it.
I nearly ripped his eyeballs out, 'cept I had just trimmed my nails so I didn't have any leverage.
Next thing I know, that man of mine is screeching around the median in a u-turn, fire in his once damp eyes. "We're going back. We're buying it."
"Oh noooooo we are not dear husband!"
"Kelly, I want THAT car."
And before I knew it, we were back in that hot and sticky used car lot. I told him I was NOT getting out of the car. We agreed! We were not gonna buy it!
He said, "I'll talk him down. I'll get him to do it."
See, that's the funny thing about it (and all you ladies out there know what I'm about to say) . . . see folks, you send a man in to do a woman's job and the next thing you know, you're paying full-price for the vehicle outta your very own check-book with your very own signature. Weenies. Lars and I are a bunch of VW lovin' weenies.
But, we are also the refined and barely-speaking husband and wife MicroBus owning duo . . .
Welcome to our nutty little Viking family, you fine specimen of German hippy engineering. May the force be with you for another 100K miles, my brother.
