She moved to the Big Apple two and a half years ago - sans car, of course. No one drives in New York outside of a Seinfeld episode. But all that time I've kept her little zipmobile so that she had a vehicle to use when she came home to visit. And, to a lesser extent, just in the case the Big Apple chewed her up and spit her out and she wanted/needed to come home.
Not that I would ever tell her that. Over the past 25 years I've done my best to shield her from her mother's worst neuroses. With mixed results, but hey, I tried.
If you know, you know.
But finally I'm convinced that she is home, and home is not here in Texas. And I'm tired of paying for insurance, registration, maintenance, tires, etc. on a vehicle that gets driven once a week, and then only because I don't want it to sit in the garage and calcify.
So I'm selling it. And it's actually working out well, because I have a co-worker who is looking for an inexpensive, reliable used car for his daughter. I'm giving him a good price, because I'm not looking to profit. In the past I've been the beneficiary of used cars from good, kind people who genuinely wanted to help me when I needed it. I'm happy to pay that forward.
When the sale goes through, I'll have a little money in my pocket, and PDaughter will have a little money in her pocket, and I'll only have one car to worry about again.
I'll be a one-car family, and a family of one.
Other than Tacocat, of course.
Which gives me the opportunity to end with this gif:
I'm on vacation this week, but here are a few random bits from the past few days.
On Monday I took Precocious Daughter to the airport for her New York trip. I got a flat tire on the way. At nearly 70 mph. Yeah. Fortunately, it was on a toll road, and the North Texas Toll Authority provides complimentary roadside assistance. Complimentary and, fortunately, fast. From the time I pulled off the road to the time we were back on our way was 20 minutes, tops. And the very nice man who installed Bene's spare wouldn't even take a tip, although I've never wanted to tip anyone more in my life. We got to the airport in plenty of time, PDaughter proudly showed her temporary learner's permit at security, and off she went.
Taking my heart with her, as always.
The next day I took my car to Discount Tire and got the flat replaced for free, because Discount Tire is awesome. (Not a paid endorsement - I just really love Discount Tire.) It turned out that my two front tires had almost no tread left, so it still cost me $300+ to get rolling again. But now, all four tires are covered under warranty, so there's that. Also, I felt slightly terrible that PDaughter's first week of driving lessons were on tires that were potentially unsafe. I've got to say, Benedict Cumberhatch handles much better with four good tires.
Speaking of Benedicts, happy birthday to Benedict Cumberbatch! Smoooooooch.
I'm so glad I named my car after him.
My sweet Drummer Boy is staying with me this week. We both took the week off so that we could...well, so far, not do much of anything except put new tires on my car and go grocery shopping. Unless snuggling counts as something. (Snuggling, of course, counts for a lot.) Unfortunately, I think I'm some kind of car jinx. As we were driving to SuperTarget yesterday in his car, something flew up from the freeway and smacked a big old six-pointed star into his windshield. I seem to be causing expensive damage to automobiles this week, which wasn't my intention when I took the week off. I'm hoping the car-boo-boo gods are now satiated and will wreak no further havoc on our vehicles.
Drummer Boy brought his electric drum kit to my place. Because of course he's not going to give up practicing just to spend time with little old me. The benefit of an electric drum kit is that the sound of drumsticks hitting the drum pads is much quieter than actual drums. What I didn't realize is that Drummer Boy pounds the hell out of the foot pedal for his hi-hat, so my downstairs neighbors are likely to hate me before the week is out. Tough beans. I love watching him play - not only is he an amazing drummer, but it's sexy af to get a private performance.
Lol, this is what came up when I Googled "sexy drummer." Sorry, doesn't do a thing for me.
Finally, on a more somber note, I just heard that Senator John McCain (R-AZ) had an aggressive brain tumor removed last week. I have my political differences with Sen. McCain, but I greatly respect his service, his intelligence, and his love of country. I hope he makes a full recovery. My thoughts are with him and his family.
You guys, my mom is making a spectacular recovery from heart surgery. Yesterday she was moved from ICU to a regular room. Probably she'll be going home Wednesday or Thursday. A week in the hospital following open-heart surgery...the 21st century kicks ass. She sounds great on the phone, she's able to walk around, and all of her readings are where they should be.
I tear up every time I think about this, or write about this, or talk about this. Guys, my mom is going to be OK. And your good thoughts and good wishes have helped me more than you'll ever know.
Me, with my Drunkards behind me.
Of course, me being me, I have another story to tell. I spent the afternoon of my Memorial Day replacing Bene's battery after he refused to start.
I've known for several weeks that my boy needed a fresh battery. He's been sluggish in starting, and I actually had to get a jump start from Katie's music teacher not long ago when he ran down after I played the radio on accessory for an hour.
I was supposed to get a new battery on Saturday. Somehow that didn't happen. (Somehow being code for I got super-lazy).
Fortunately, Bene has Roadside Protection, so I was able to get a jump-start and go get a new battery at...Walmart.
Karma.
When you let your battery die on a national holiday, you go wherever is open. In my case, that meant Walmart. And to be fair, they were friendly and reasonably quick and didn't destroy my bank account.
PDaughter and I spent an hour wandering around Walmart while waiting for the battery to be replaced. They have fricking EVERYTHING there. Rolling ice cooler? Check. Paint? Check? Pope John Paul II prayer candle? Check.
Customers screaming at their children, "You get your ass over there and keep quiet"? Yep.
Anyway.
On Friday I received the most beautiful floral arrangement from my corporate boss, along with a note of appreciation. Literally no one in my office could believe I had been sent flowers for no other reason than being appreciated for the work I do.
Ironic, seeing as how the real reason my corporate boss sent them was that I had earlier in the week vented to her about how no one in my office seemed to give a single shit about the work I do every single day.
Actual comments received: Are they from your boyfriend? Is it your birthday? Did somebody die?
Never once did I say, "No, I just work with a bunch of unmannered jackasses, and she was expressing sympathy for my being treated like a potted plant day in and day out."
I'm classy, yo.
The flowers are so gorgeous, and I'm a thousand times appreciative of them. Here are a few closeups of the bouquet:
Needless to say, the pictures don't do them justice. But they are beautiful and made me feel so good.
Finally...my love and respect for all those who have given their lives to protect and defend their country.
War is terrible, and the governments who start them are mostly terrible.
But the men and women who respond to their country's call and serve with honor and bravery...
They deserve all our respect.
Thank you for your service, whether or not I believe in the cause.
You deserve at least one day to be honored in our hearts.
I said and did some dumb things, and I hurt someone I love. And I think we're on a break.
Not nearly as funny and charming as it was on "Friends."
Early Monday morning, a hellacious storm ripped through my town. Trees downed, roads flooded. We lost power for more than six hours. And when it came back on, I was afraid that the power surges we experienced might have fried many of our electronic doodads, including our microwave, our TV, and Precocious Daughter's new XBox. None of them worked once the lights came on. After a few stressful hours of troubleshooting mixed with general freaking out, I discovered that the wiring in my apartment building is...touchy. I mean, I already knew that, since our elevators go on the fritz almost every time is rains. Long story short, I've learned that just because a circuit breaker isn't tripped doesn't mean it doesn't need to be reset (twice) to bring the circuit back online. In the end, the only thing that actually got zapped was the $15 charger for my laptop. Everything else is fine.
Aside: I'm typing quickly because my replacement charger doesn't arrive until tomorrow, so I'm blogging on battery power.
This morning, I went out to my garage and found that Benedict Cumberhatch had a flat tire. And I couldn't find the damn lug wrench to put on the spare.
Roadside Assistance to the rescue, but again, not the best start to the day. (Although I did learn where Ford hides its lug wrench...inside the jack handle. Really, Ford?)
So where does a bean update fit in to all this?
Well, the fierce storm knocked over my pot o'beans. I found them waterlogged, partially crushed under their own container, and looking decidedly worse for wear.
I didn't take pictures of them in that state. It seemed disrespectful.
So I set them upright, straightened their bent stalks the best I could, and hoped for the best.
I'm happy to report that the sproutlings weathered another storm overnight and are bouncing back.
This has definitely been a setback, but they're already pushing out new leaves to replace those battered by wind and rain.
I'll pinch off those yellowed and dead leaves you see, to make room for the new growth.
Texas summers are hard on beans, you guys.
But they weathered the storm, because they're alive and resilient and determined to thrive.
Oh, that would be the metaphor. Je suis haricot. Nous somme des haricots.
Right on.
I have killed one your cutest and most bushy-tailed creations.
You did what, now?
This morning, while driving Precocious Daughter to her music lesson, I ran over a squirrel.
It was an accident. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts! IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD!
Use of deadly force was approved!
To be fair, Mother Earth, you created squirrels to possess intelligence in inverse proportion to their adorableness. They are, in fact, very stupid. Sure, they instinctively know to gather nuts each year and hibernate during the coldest part of winter and even how to make little squirrel nests to raise their squirrel babies. But couldn't you have given them some sort of basic survival instinct, as well?
Or, alternatively, some sort of natural protection?
The road I was driving on was smooth and wide and had excellent visibility. So I saw the little critter scampering across, heading for the median. He was 18 inches from safety - a mere moment at scampering speed. All he had to do was keep going. But no. He stopped, directly in the path of my left front tire.
Aaaaah! Then what?
Now, I had time to slow down, and I had space to swerve out of the little guy's way. Had he either resumed crossing or stayed where he was, I could have avoided him. Mother Earth, why did you give squirrels the natural ability to choose precisely the worst option for their own survival? Why, instead of running a couple of feet forward, did this little squirrel decide to turn around and go back the way he came? PDaughter and I watched, horrified, as this fluffy-tailed idiot made a beeline for the exact spot where my right front tire could take him out. Which is exactly what it did.
A moment of silence, please.
PDaughter screamed. I screamed. There was nothing I could do. We heard a small thud! And when I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw his little lifeless body, somewhat flattened, lying in the road. And then I saw the car behind me run over him, too. "You hit him! You hit him!" PDdaughter shouted. "I know! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry!" I wailed. "You stupid squirrel, why did you do that?" That's right. I blamed the squirrel for his own demise. I'm not one to shame the victim. But it's not as if he dressed provocatively or let me pay for dinner or walked alone in a bad neighborhood. But he had two strong options for survival (three if you count not crossing the goddamn road in traffic in the first place), and he blew them off.
*sigh* Jerry never was the smartest squirrel in the tree.
That squirrel's death was quick and (I hope) painless. I, on the other hand, am traumatized and have to live with accidentally facilitating the creation of roadkill on what should have been a pleasant and uneventful drive. I think I deserve some sympathy here.
So forgive me, Mother Earth, for offing one of your furry children. In my defense, I think I've made a valuable contribution to natural selection. Perhaps my children's children's children will behold the wonder of the armored squirrel, impervious to smooshing. Perhaps I've helped hasten the rise of the all-powerful squirrel army that someday will enslave mankind force humans to work in filthy walnut mines in the service of squirrelkind.
As of four o'clock this afternoon, I am on vacation.
To answer the question that many, many people have asked:
Nowhere.
Not here.
I could go somewhere, but the funds I would use are earmarked for other things. Things I'm going to start taking care of this week.
Important things.
So I'm taking a time vacation instead of a place vacation. As in, time away from work. Time to get things done. Time to be both productive and relaxed.
Which sounds beautiful to me.
Tomorrow I start meeting with contractors, who are going to help me stretch my pod of money that is earmarked to get my house ready to sell.
(That is a whole 'nother post in itself. Wait for it.)
Monday I take Benedict Cumberhatch for his very first service interval. I've promised myself to take very good care of this car, and that means actually getting the recommended services on schedule.
Tuesday I go to the optometrist. It's been, almost to the day, four years since I last had my eyes checked. I'm dismayed and disgusted to report that my middle-age eyesight is continuing to deteriorate. On the other hand, I get to pick new frames! Yay!
Tuesday is also haircut day. I've been growing it out, which is something I do periodically until I remember that wanting to have long, thick hair doesn't make it so. I may give my baby-fine locks one more cycle to grow out before giving up and getting it chopped short (which will coincide with the heat of summer, which is what I do every year).
Aside: Precocious Daughter has So. Much. Hair. She wears it super-short - way shorter than what I consider a short 'do - but there's still so much of it. She got her hair cut a few days ago. Even though she didn't have more than a half-inch or so removed, it still amounted to a soft, fluffy cloud approximately the size of Cousin Itt on the floor of the salon.
Minus the hat.
Aside #2: My future ex informed me that my hair doesn't look good long. There was a time I would have taken that into consideration. Yeah.
Right now I don't have anything scheduled past Tuesday, but there's probably going to be a fair bit of DIY, some gardening, maybe additional contractors. Probably some crap TV binge-watching. A hike in the woods, if the weather cooperates. Working on my social media presence.
Writing, duh. Hours and hours of writing.
I'll also be very busy not checking my work email.
My friend Bill the Butcher asked if he could do another guest post, and I said HELL YEAH because I loved the last one he did.
Also, it's been a physically and emotionally draining week, and I'm more than happy to take the night off and let Bill bring the awesome to this space.
Bringing it.
As a reminder, Bill is Indian (and no, I don't know why his name is Bill and not Apu or Rajeesh - why don't you ask him?), and he's a hard-core militant leftist agitant. So he's strange and scary, but don't let that put you off. His blog is crazy good.
Here's his guest post. He said I could give it any title I liked.
Stumpy the Squirrel Drinks Antifreeze: A Morality Play
by Bill the Butcher
This happened.
I was driving uphill
in heavy traffic. By this I mean I was driving up a steep, steep hill in
bumper-to-bumper traffic, on a street so narrow that the vehicles on the other
side came close to endangering my driver’s side rear view mirror. By this I
mean that my shoulders and neck were seizing up with the effort not to tailgate
the vehicle in front or be rammed by the one behind. By this I mean...
...Oh, hey, I should
tell you that this was all driving a manual transmission vehicle, shouldn’t I?
That would be obvious to anyone in this country, but I suppose manual
transmission is rare to nonexistent where this post is going to be read.
(I actually have readers from several countries, but who the fuck cares? GO USA. - CB)
Oh yes, so this was
when I was already late for something (it doesn’t matter what it was – OK, if
you must know, it was a friend and colleague’s wedding) and I wasn’t even sure
of the exact location I was supposed to go, and it was getting heavily cloudy
and there was lightning on the horizon, so on top of everything else this was
likely going to come down in a mass of hail any moment.
No, I wasn’t in the
best of moods.
So, sitting there, one
foot pressing the clutch pedal to the floor, the other the brake, my hand
tapping the steering wheel while nothing bloody moved at all, I started
thinking of what I’d do at that moment if I had a tank, like, you know, the
quartet of stories I wrote on Alyosha and the Least Famous Tank in the World.
This isn’t meant as a plug for that so I won’t put up a link. Anyway, there
would have been crushed cars and murder and mayhem.
And I would be
laughing.
(You'll have to supply your own maniacal laughter. -CB)
But since I wasn’t in
the driver’s seat of a T 34, I began thinking instead of the old Michael
Douglas flick, Falling Down. I loved that film. Oh, man, I loved that film. And
like Michael Douglas, I had an impulse to just turn off the engine, pull the
handbrake, and walk away.
But I didn’t do that,
for two reasons. First, I’m not crazy. Second, the car was expensive, and I
hadn’t even finished paying for it.
Even if I had walked
away, what then? I couldn’t, I’ll bet, find a weapons dealer to sell me a
rocket launcher, and I had no plans to commit suicide by cop after meeting a
nonexistent estranged wife and daughter.
You see my problem? If
I had a weapons supplier to sell me a rocket launcher, with which I could blow
up a street, if I had a wife and daughter, hell, if I even had a gun with which
to threaten a fast food place for not supplying me breakfast at lunchtime, I
might have walked away from the damned car. I could have done a Falling Down on
my own, or at least a "J'pète les plombs" by Disiz. I could have had my own
sociopathic movie or rap video, man.
Instead I was sitting
in this damned car, watching the morons crawl by, and getting more and more
pissed off by the moment.
(They say "pissed off" in India? Shit's getting educational up in here. -CB)
Now, right in front of
me was this truck. I thought overloaded trucks were banned from town streets,
but this is India and this is the hicktown capital of India, where the rules
are only remarkable if someone follows them by accident. This truck was not
only overloaded, the load was obviously not even properly secured, because the
entire bed was tilting to one side on the chassis. Like it was going to topple
over in a minute. And it was belching such clouds of smoke I’d suggest the army
take it to lay down a smokescreen if we ever go to war with anyone again.
But then it would be a
deadly chemical warfare agent, what with all that carbon monoxide. It was
giving me a headache from three vehicles back, so all one would have to do is
turn it towards the Pakista...I mean, whoever we were fighting...lines, and let
the engine rip, after which all we’d need to do was get ready for the war
crimes trials. Thanks, baby.
By this time I’d
obviously miss the wedding anyway, so I decided to turn around and go home.
Only, I couldn’t turn around and go home, you know, because I bloody well
didn’t have the space to turn the car. So now I was stuck on this slope, cars
to back of me, truck to front of me, cars to right of me, volleyed by carbon
monoxide and thundered from above. Lord Tennyson had nothing on it.
(Wait, you say "bloody well," but you don't call a truck a lorry? What kind of former Imperial subject are you? -CB)
It was at that moment
that I had a kind of epiphany.
Do you remember the
Imperial Walkers or whatever the hell they were called in The Empire Strikes
Back? I’m a Trekkie, I hated the Star Wars series, so I may be wrong in the
proper designation, but you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The
dinosaurlike machine things topheavily walking across the ice planet Hoth.
No, I am not
suggesting someone invent a real mechanical tailless Brachiosaurus. In fact
that’s the opposite of what I am suggesting. But a car which could put out, um,
legs like tarantulas and crawl over other traffic would be nice, don’t you
think? Someone get together with me and make a plan. Someone with more
mechanical engineering knowledge than I have, I mean. That’s not a feat.
(Here you go. His name is Stompy. You're welcome. -CB)
I even have a name for
this crawling car. In fact, I didn’t have to go looking far for it. It would be
popular, right? A lot of people might buy it? And it would crawl like an
insect?
Right...people’s car
and insect. What does that suggest? Something...
Badum-TISS.
This is Chuck again. Ever heard French rap? Check it out:
This happened in Dallas this week. Dude with a gun stole a car from a gas station and proceeded to lead the police on a chase. A local news helicopter picked it up so that we have footage of all the best bits.
Eventually the thief slammed into the back of a car. And then...
In sum: Mama Bear and her boyfriend took his ass out.
Turns out this happened in a school zone, and Mama Bear's 13-year-old son was in the car. Heartbreakingly, Mama Bear lost a four-year-old son just last August. And so her immediate reaction to some random asshole rear-ending her with precious cargo on board was to charge and defend.
And as I watched this video, I was all but standing up and cheering. Because my reaction would have been exactly the same.
Precocious Daughter sometimes accuses me of being, shall we say, an aggressive driver. By which she means I occasionally air out my middle finger if I feel the need. Damn right. Hey, the 72 square feet of road I occupy when I'm driving Benedict Cumberhatch are mine. To other drivers I say, don't encroach on my space, mofos. And don't drive like an idiot. I'm happy to share the road with safe, attentive drivers. The rest of you assholes, not so much.
And if some reckless idiot were to smash into me when I had my baby girl in the car (I know, she's 15 and about to learn to drive herself shut up she's an infant), my first instinct would be to kick the living shit out of him.
Come at me, bro. I'm full of mom hormones.
You may remember that my beloved Beetle was totaled last year by a teenage dick with a phone in his hand. The only reason I didn't bust him in the chops was that it was such a ridiculously slow-speed crash that the extent of the damage didn't become evident until the Bug was thoroughly inspected. I've hit the wall of my garage at higher speeds.
But if what happened to Mama Bear had happened to me, the police would have been arresting each of his teeth individually when they showed up. Because no one puts my kid in harm's way.
By the way, this story has an incredibly happy ending. A local dealership presented Mama Bear with a brand-new car for her trouble. And her son is fine (another driver who was hit was taken to the hospital but is also OK). And the car thief even publicly apologized for hitting her car...you know, from jail, where his ass should be sitting for a while.
Meth-heads. They're worse than Illinois Nazis. And twice as ugly.
Oh, sure, our PC society tells us to love these drug-addled losers as one of our own. They're somebody's mother, father, daughter, son, shoe salesperson, and/or oil-change technician. They just stepped on the wrong train one day and ended up in Junkietown. They've lost their way, is all.
Don't let their freakish looks deceive you, they're beautiful on the inside.
Well, I've lost my way a couple of times. One time I got drunk in the woods and wandered off the trail. Want to know what happened? I got eaten by a fucking bear, that's what. No one offered me a helping hand. I couldn't have accepted it anyway, because my hand was in a goddamn bear's stomach. I had to climb out on my own. It was messy, and that bear probably still has it out for me. But I did it.
So don't talk to me about losing your way. No matter what poison you've injected into your system, it's not as if you've been eaten by a bear.
He's out there. And he's still hungry.
I encountered a meth-head yesterday. She slammed into my niece's car in the parking lot of Rosa's Tortilla Factory. Nice place. Good tortillas. Crowded on Taco Tuesday, so be prepared.
The meth-head ran a stop sign and hit my niece. She had her mother in the car. The meth-head, not my niece. I don't know if that was clear. If my niece's mother had been in the car, I would have said "my sister." I don't know why my sister would have been in the meth-head's car. My sister doesn't do meth. I hope the meth-head's mother doesn't do meth, either. That would be sad. It's bad enough watching your child throw her life down the toilet without pulling the handle and going along for the ride.
In any event...goddamn meth-head driving her mom around on a Saturday afternoon. It's sweet. Until you smash your car into my niece. Then things get fucked up fast.
Tiger mom has nothing on tiger aunt.
I don't know what meth costs. I don't want to know. I do know how much cigarettes cost, though, because they advertise them at the gas station. People spend six bucks a pack to give themselves emphysema, cancer, and breath like roadkill? And this shit's legal? What a world.
I also know this: The meth-head was smoking a cigarette after the wreck, as if she had just gotten laid instead of causing an accident. Between the meth and the smoke, it seems to me she has enough money to buy goddamn insurance for her car. Or maybe I'm an idiot. In any event, the meth-head was uninsured.
She had a sob story about having to pay for her mom's surgery. I had a sob story, too: Some meth-head bitch just plowed into my niece's car. I was angry. Sorry about your mom, and your various addictions, and losing your way. Those things are tough. I hope you turn your life around, but I hope it's painful. I'm a bad person. But you're worse.
I'm in recovery. It's day to day.
She had a pretty bad attitude for a meth-head. Her mom was right there and all. Maybe she was embarrassed. I think the mom was embarrassed. No one wants their kid to be a meth-head. Or maybe some moms do. The world is full of dicks.
I pulled the car door open and dragged the meth-head out. Yeah, I roughed her up some. It didn't take much; she was like a wad of wet paper towels, physically. Since she wasn't going to pay to fix my niece's car, at least I could shake some satisfaction out of her. It felt good. It felt damn good.
Nah, that part didn't actually happen.
I said some unkind words. I glared. I took pictures of her license plate in case she decided to drive off before the police arrived. But get physical with someone who clearly has bigger problems than getting beat up by the likes of me?
There's too much karma in the world.
The bear is still out there.
My niece wasn't injured. Her car was banged up, but not too bad; the meth-head's car was worse off. Too bad for her. If she'd had insurance...you know. Maybe the wreck will be a wake-up call.
I doubt it. But far be it from me to judge someone with problems. I've got problems of my own.
To Wolfie, who totally gets credit for the Gorenado on my recent post about alternate Sharknadoes.
Here's Al again. And yes, I'm still taking suggestions.
To Bestest Friend, who has been told by her doctor to give up sugar and gluten. Personally, I'd rather die young than forego Cheezits and pizza, but I'm behind her 100%. Keep her in your thoughts, because she's my bestie and I want her to be happy and healthy.
You go, girl.
To Lexus: Thank you for making a car that looks exactly like my beautiful Benedict Cumberhatch, but costs twice as much. Because maybe my little Ford Focus will conk out after 10 years and your car will last 20, but I can buy another one and still come out even. And I bought American and I can afford the payments and I love him. So thanks.
Seriously, I parked next to one of these at the mall yesterday, and except for the logo, you could not tell the difference.
To Drummer Boy: I want the whole world to know how much I love you. Unfortunately, the whole world doesn't read this blog. But it will have to do. Thank you for saving me from the monster in the woods.
And finally: To all my Drunkards, thanks for reading. I can't believe anyone at all reads this blog, let alone the slowly growing number of folks who stop by. There will never be a day when I'm not gobsmacked and grateful for your time and your feedback.
As a token of my appreciation, I got you a monkey sharpshooter to protect you from Internet trolls and bad juju.
I love my new ride, Benedict Cumberhatch, and I got him for a really good price and had a great experience at the dealership. My co-worker, to hear him tell it, did a shit-ton of running around town, getting into haggling death-matches with various salespeople, and seems to have ended up with a car he's not all that excited about.
This tells me that I'm a freaking ninja master at buying cars.
I do not wish the corrosion protection package. Hi-ya.
I'm going to share my wisdom with you, partly because I know how difficult it can be to buy a car and partly because I have so little other wisdom to share.
You do not want me to share my wisdom about handling sharp objects.
So listen up, and learn the Baudelaire Method for Ninja Car Buying and Whatnot.
Step 1: Know what you want.
It is much harder to define your perfect car than it is to define your perfect mate. For one thing, you can't bend a car to your will once you've reeled it in; it has to be exactly what you want without any goading from you. I know, right? Also, a car can't put itself into debt to make you happy. I know this sounds grim, but don't get discouraged. Cars and mates have a lot in common: in both cases, you want them to be reliable and easy to maintain, they should make you look good, withstand a lot of neglect without showing dirt, and have a great sound system. All without bankrupting you, of course. Personally, I want to make sure mine looks good from the rear, but that's a matter of personal preference.
Step 2: Stalk your car.
When you're looking for a new vehicle, every parking lot, every intersection, every traffic jam becomes a car lot. Look around: like kids on a playground, you'll see every size, shape, color, and personality. After a while you'll find that a particular type catches your eye and makes your heart flutter, and you'll start to imagine the two of you cruising around town together. And this is making the kids on a playground metaphor seem reall awkward. To be clear, I'm talking about being attracted to a particular type of car. Don't do any of what I've just described on a playground.
Step 3: Avoid human interaction until absolutely necessary.
With the exception of a suitcase full of cash, nothing makes car-buying easier than the Internet. (The same goes for sexual gratification, but I'm just going to stay away from metaphors for the rest of this post, OK?) I picked out Bene from a local dealer's website, downloaded his window sticker to check out his pertinents, requested an e-quote, got back a price that was lower than any offer I would have had the cojones to make in person, printed out the quote, took it to the dealership, showed it to the salesperson and said "I want this one," and drove him off the lot just a couple of hours later. The car, that is, not the salesperson. I didn't have to haggle, and more importantly, I didn't have to make small talk. Brrrrr, small talk.
For the millionth time, thank you, Allie Brosh.
Three critical things to remember about online car shopping:
1. Be completely passive. Don't make an offer, don't make a counter-offer. That may be hard for some of you, but trust me: Passivity is a life skill that anyone can learn. If the dealership knows what it's doing, it will give you a price that will render all that back-and-forth bullshit unnecessary. If the dealership doesn't know what it's doing, don't buy your car there, doy.
2. If you request an e-quote and instead receive any variation on "Why don't you come in and we'll see if we can put a deal together," delete the email and scrub your keyboard with antibacterial wipes. You're done here.
3. Kelley Blue Book values are for chumps. Look up the fair market value (what people are actually paying) for the car you want, of course. Subtract 10-15%, then ignore any quotes for more than that figure. I ain't lying, people.
Step 4: Know what to look for.
When you're actually face-to-face with your prospective S.A. (significant auto), keep in mind that judging a vehicle is like judging a dog at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.* There are certain things you have to look for. For example, never buy a car:
With a dinky glovebox.
With a steering wheel that blocks your view of the speedometer.
Whose dipstick and washer fluid reservoir you can't immediately identify/easily access.
Without a center armrest.
(for used cars) Whose radio presets are all hard-rock or talk-radio stations.
* That was a metaphor, sorry. It had nothing to do with sex, I promise.
Step 5: Be nice.
Be an absolute hard-ass on everything else in this list. But smile and make self-deprecating jokes and laugh at whatever the salesperson/business manager/finance guy says. My co-worker tried to be Mr. Hardass, and now he's a 220-pound bear of a man driving a white (God help me), used Nissan Juke that looks like a albino frog and cost more than my brand-new Ford Focus hatchback that I love like PB&J trail mix.
Regular readers know how I love that mess.
That's it. Choose wisely and well, is what it comes down to. And don't haggle. This is the 21st century; don't let the previous millennium drag you down.
Now go buy a car. Or, you know, the terrorists win, or something.
Also: In exchange for this sage advice, if someone could tell me how to afford a car payment for the next 60 months, that would be great, thanks.
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