The Passionate Car Man To His Love

The Passionate Car Man To His Love

"Come live with me and be my bride.
And we will test drive every ride.
While seeking the best auto deals.
And listening to salesmen's spiels."

The Trophy Wife's Reply To The Car Man

" If we had all the time to spare.
To seek a deal that you deem fair.
I'd drag my ass to one more lot.
To find the car that we have sought."

Yes my darling readers; I'm back. And I've missed you all terribly this week as my darling spouse and I have been on the epic odyssey for: The right car at the right price. I can promise you that as I have gone through the auto purchasing process with my husband I have learned more about him this week than I ever knew before. He's a ruthless killer in a car lot, a prowling alpha male stalking down his prey with stealth and patience. Countries have been invaded with less planning and strategy than the Car Man has put into purchasing a low mileage pre-owned vehicle for the lowest price possible. We have possibly become legends in South Georgia for bringing even the oiliest auto sales people to their knees. My darling's motto as we headed into the fray seemed to be based on George S. Patton's famous quote: "Battle is an orgy of disorder." And believe me; we set out to create mayhem and confusion. It's what we do best as a couple.


Our ploy was simple and classic. We used the old "dumb bimbo wife and hard nosed, skeptical husband approach." Every time the salesman would address a question to me; I would look helplessly at my husband as though English was not my first language. Just deer in the headlights, butt scratching idiot stupid. My standard answer to any question involving what I was looking for in a car was that the car not be white, as all the cars I have totaled in the past have been white. Then I would giggle like a half wit and wobble my head from side to side to circulate the air filling my skull. Usually after that they would only address my husband; leaving me to pretend not to listen anymore. That way it was much more fun when I went in for the kill with the tough questions.



Luckily I am a native flower of the South, so I do know how things work here and can act as a cultural interpreter for my spouse. Being raised in Atlanta I don't really have much of a Southern accent unless I am with other Southerners. Most of this week I sounded like my home address might be Tobacco Road and in fact a road of that very name exists in my small town. Except it's called Tobacco Rode-seriously--and it's unpaved of course. Now we Southerners are a just a tad verbose; it's something we excel at. There's an old joke about it even: If you bring two Greeks together, they'll start a restaurant. If you bring two Germans together, they'll start a war. And if you bring two Southerners together, they'll talk about nothing all day long. This drives my taciturn Midwestern husband utterly insane. To say he is spare with words is an understatement; he converses as if it were an unpleasant obligation he must fulfill. I nicknamed him "Chatty Charles" this week to commemorate his verbal stoicism.

Now when you do business here the first thing you must understand that it's rude to actually launch into the reason for your visit. You drop by the car lots and stroll about like the last possible thing you wish to do is actually purchase a car. You amble nonchalantly around shooting the breeze with your designated salesman and get to know all about each other. We learned everything about Kurt, Dallas, Jack, and Devon (good luck on your upcoming marriage!). We talked Georgia football, the economy, about the recent floods, our work, families, and my fancy high heel shoes. Every once in a while we would talk about the car I was looking at. My husband trekked along listening to the endless stream of babble between the salesman and I; his face was a study in bewildered amazement at how much of pure nothing two people could converse about. Then finally we would get to the part I enjoy the most--the test drive.

I drive offensively. No, not defensively; that's for other people sharing the road with me. I have the ultimate faith that they're watching out for their safety by avoiding driving anywhere near me. I know jokes about women drivers offend the hell out of most women and they should. Those women are probably good drivers. I, on the other hand, know that I'm a road hazard and only use the highway when there is no other way to get some place. Most of the time I stay on back roads so that everyone is out of harm's way. Even deer clear the roads when they hear me coming (I have deer whistles installed on my car for their safety). I'm the driver that Asians make fun of, and that's okay. We all have to make fun of someone and I'm a good sport about it. My husband has been threatening for years to suspend a tennis ball from our garage ceiling so that I don't drive through the back wall and was looking for a car that had a back-up alarm as a standard feature in my new car.


We test drove a Jeep Compass at one of our local dealerships that likes to advertise it's "drive it like you stole it" price structuring. Our salesman that day was an earnest young man with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever, so you know we were going to have fun with him. I peeled out of the parking lot while my husband sighed loudly and dramatically snapped on his seat belt. He turned his his head slightly and advised the then terrified salesman to "strap himself down", as I ignored the posted speed limit (it's only a suggestion anyway) and tore down the Quitman highway like Danica Patrick on crack. I got to a turn around and slowed down just enough to squeal through an illegal u-turn in front of a few cars and head back to the dealership. I missed the turn in slightly and had to drive a few feet into oncoming traffic to get to the entrance (it may have been the exit, luckily no one was coming). I heard the poor boy whimper, but I'm used to that with passengers and I just ignored it. I was disappointed that they were unable to meet our pricing needs, but my husband consoled me by reminding me that at least I had indeed driven it like I had stolen it. "Just like a getaway car, baby" is actually what he said as we sadly drove back home without it.


Saturday we drove again to Tifton to try our wiles on a new bunch of dealerships. By this time even I had lost patience with all the wheeling and dealing. We had settled on a nice Dodge Caliber, a cute station wagon like car that is slightly smaller than my Ford wagon. I also found that I liked the same color as my current wagon; which is a sort of khaki-gold. I am nothing if not consistent. I do have to give kudos to one of our local dealers though, Hyundai of Valdosta. They are a great bunch and offered us a fantastic price on a barely used Nissan Sentra. Their service manager's son and the Teenager are best friends, so based on that we were given the "friends and family" discount; which was considerable. The car was all decked out with fancy features and was quite the cougarmobile. It was bright, screaming lipstick red and had a little under fifteen thousand miles on it. It was definitely a car for a saucy woman; just not this woman. Underneath my high gloss exterior beats the heart of an introverted librarian who just loves inconspicuous station wagons. Plus the Teenager would have probably run off with it before I got the keys out of the ignition. Knowing him, he probably had already worked out one of his deals with his friend's dad anyway.

We went to three dealerships in Tifton, gave them our bottom "walk out the door" price and then did just that. Walked out the door. At one lot I just got back in the car the minute the salesman showed me a car that was four thousand dollars over the price we told him we would be willing to spend. Finally we found another dealership with my Caliber. We were approached by Mr. Bobby, who was a car salesman of the old school. Loud and desperate. He would do anything we wanted to get us to buy a car. He didn't need a computer to do the math; he just whipped out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and scribbled figures on it. He had a big knuckle bruiser of a gold ring with a Masonic crest on it. He didn't make us come set in his office to shoot the breeze. He just wanted to sell us a car. And it worked. Monday morning I will take possession of my new wagon. It has all the bells and whistles that my husband wanted me to have. For me it has a plug in for my Ipod, a cooler in the dash for my water bottles and space for my travel makeup bag. In fact there is enough space in the dash for my cosmetics and the car's handbook; my husband cringes over the fact that I threw my last one away since it took up too much space. What was I supposed to do, read it?

So be looking for me in my new car. I guess I'll have to let the State Patrol know so that they can update their file on me. I do try to warn people when I come to their town; I think it's important to give folks a chance to clear the roads. I'm thoughtful that way.

Love and Kisses,

Cult Diva