WIth Six You Get Eggroll

There comes a time in your life, no matter how frugal (let's call it fiscally conservative) you are, and no matter how sentimentally attached you are to a hunk of steel, you have to buy a new car. 

We are on the verge of that point here in the Duff household.  Our trusty old minivan, a 2001 Toyota Sienna, purchased after my Geo Prizm got smushed while I was pregnant, is beginning to outlive its usefulness. It starts almost every time you ask it to, but not every time. The back hatch needs to be opened with a screwdriver. The cloth seats, covered in twelve years worth of baby puke, spilled drinks, mashed-in gummy worms, general toddler and small child stickiness, and the dirt that just accumulates during that period of time, cannot be cleaned satisfactorially. Not that we've tried much. The back seat removal technology has improved to such a degree that there seems no reason beyond inertia to have to get a winch and a forklift every time we want to use the back of the van for storage.

I will be irrationally sad to see the van go. It was the vehicle that safely brought my babies home from the hospital. We've taken lots of great road trips in it.  It has served us faithfully for many years. 

Thankfully, I don't have to be in charge of the car buying process. My husband, Mike, who earned his retirement keeping the streets of DeKalb County safe for thirty years, has time on his hands and an understanding of how engines work.  Plus, he's a guy, and I don't care how far we've come, baby, men are going to get a better deal with less arguing for All Things Automotive.

Not too long ago, Mike went to get an estimate on my car after he backed it into the van. While he was there, he went ahead and test drove a Honda Odyssey, one of our pre-researched finalists in the Duff Family New Van contest. He came home with brochures, and we went over them together, talking about what we did and did not want in terms of features. Mike has this irrational dislike of sun roofs.  I insist on a built-in GPS. It turns out that these things are incompatible: you cannot both have a built in GPS and no sun roof. If you want a gold-colored car, you can only have tan seats.  If you want the grey seats, you need to have a blue car.  

Honestly, I do not get the connection, nor why we put up with it. These 'option' packages are apparently assembled by a group of Capuchin monkeys throwing darts. I mean, think of it. Imagine going to a pizza shop, and being told that you couldn't order pepperoni unless you also ordered green peppers.  Oh, I'm sorry.  You want a veggie pizza without mushrooms?  Well, we can do that, but then it has to have ham on it, and you have to also buy a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke.  Who would go there twice?  And what if they said the veggie pizza was $12.99, but if you threatened to walk out and go to Pizza Hut they'd give it to you for $11.99?  My goodness. I would never go out to eat if I had to negotiate a deal to throw in the onions if I've ordered the green peppers and roma tomatoes. No, sorry, we can't do that. But we can give you an extra garlic knot if you also order a Mr. Pibb and ten buffalo wings. I don't have time for that. I'm hungry now, and I want you to bring me the basket of rolls NOW with no discussion about it.

Odd that I think this way, perhaps, because I negotiate for a living. But then, maybe not. I negotiate things that matter, like where a child will live and go to school. It matters how often a child sees his father  It doesn't matter if I have a Satellite Radio and an optional cupholder. Those are creature comforts, and I know it.  But creature comforts keep us happy, don’t they? Aren't we in a better mood when we are neither sweating through our clothing or battling hypothermia? When the song on the radio is an old favorite vs. A Whole Bunch Of Noise Your Kids Like For Some Odd Reason?

I don't know.  What I do know is that I am grateful that I have a husband who willingly and skillfully strides into these sorts of battles.  He's also tall, and can reach objects on high shelves, so I think I'll keep him around.  He's not much of a decision maker, though, and lives in fear that some car dealer somewhere might be able to give him a better deal, or if he waits another two months the newer models will finally have the "Go Go Gadget Copter" feature for dealing with traffic jams, so he is loathe to commit.  My bet is that we will be the proud owners of a new vehicle in approximately six months, during which period I will do a lot of smiling and nodding as I listen to descriptions of torque and towing packages.  Anyone want to take that bet?