If you wanna feel better about your family, just read about ours...

Starring: a dad, a mom, a son & daughter-in-law, a daughter & son-in-law, a teen, a tween, 1 grandson, 3 granddaughters, 3 dogs, and a whole lot of love.

Family Story Pic

Family Story Pic


Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Man Demands

You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
But what if your second impression is actually worse than the first? And then every impression after that sucks even more than the one before?

Lemme cut to the chase. I think our car salesman hates me. These are things I think about.

So why is this bothering me? Well, it has nothing to do with the fact that he's hot. Not like hot hot, but hawwwt. So forget that. And while we're at it, let's forget that I'm old enough to be his mother and probably too old to say things like hawwwt.

It's not like I'm new to haters, but this one bugs me because he couldn't be more wrong about who I think he thinks I am, but in every interaction we've had so far, my husband proves him right.

Are you confused? I feel like you might be confused.
Let me clear things up and get this on the record for you, me, and Dylan the car salesman:

I am a stable, low maintenance human being, whose only requirement for a vehicle is that it runs. I'm nice (unless provoked), kinda smart sometimes, I may have a sensitive gag reflex, but I do NOT cry easily, dammit! I'm also not spoiled and I dance hard and massage people for money to contribute to our income, but I realize how unfortunate that sounds, so we'll strike that part from this particular record.

So, why do I think he thinks otherwise? Well, partly from bizarre circumstances and then also because every time my husband interacts with Dylan our car salesman, he sets me up for failure.

It started uneventfully. Ron wanted a Pilot. He got connected with Dylan the car salesman who found him a Pilot. We met with Dylan, Ron test drove the Pilot, and he bought the Pilot. After we left, Ron told me I'd need to bring it back to the dealership to have the luggage rack and DVD player installed, and the nicked windshield replaced. No big deal. It might surprise you to know, when it comes to Ron, I generally do what I'm asked.

Feminists don't want me as their spokesperson, nor should they.

I knew it'd be an all-day thing, so I took plenty to do to keep me busy. Everyone at the dealership kept apologizing for the time it was taking, but I patiently put their minds at ease. I expected this. No big deal. See? I'm nice. Stable. Low.Maintenace.

But things went south at the end when a female employee I'd never seen before found me in the waiting area and dramatically told me that the luggage rack and DVD player were installed, but I'd have to take the Pilot to a different location to get the windshield fixed "and HURRY, because YOU'RE late."

Nice, stable, and low maintenance aside, I have buttons and I have limits, and within a matter of the 2 minutes it took her to rush me to the car, she'd pushed and exceeded all of them. Then in a lame-ass attempt at "customer service" she asked "Do you have any questions for me?" The only thing that came to mind was, do people frequently punch you in the mouth?

But before I could ask, she walked away. Probably for the best.
I opened my door and that's when I saw all the trash. It would seem that every part of the DVD system came wrapped in tiny pieces of plastic that had been strewn all over the seats and floor of Ron's new Pilot. And an hour later, I was calling him. Crying. And moments after that, Dylan the car salesman was receiving an enraged text from my husband demanding answers as to why his wife left their dealership crying today.

Piece of free advice? Don't make me cry. You're welcome.

The following day, we returned. They fully detailed his Pilot again and then I was sitting in the front seat with Jordan the tech guy as he carefully answered any and all questions I could possibly ever have about every single feature on the Pilot and DVD player while my husband silently supervised from the back seat. Not a great demonstration of my stability.

So, I can't make a worse impression than that, right? Hold my beer.

Recently, we needed a newer mini-van. Ron contacted Dylan with what he was looking for, and when Dylan found one, we went to take a look. He took us around the van, noting all the special features, while directing them all to me specifically, making special mention of the color of the van and "key-less locks so you never have to fumble in your purse."

Hold up. Purse? Do I look like someone who carries a purse?

I listened politely and oohhed and ahhhed, because nice.stable,low.maintenance. Not crying. 

We decided to buy the van and agreed to pick it up the following week to allow them time to install the luggage rack and hitch Ron wanted. On our way out the door, Dylan told Ron to please make sure we come on a day he's there to "ensure that everything goes smoothly for her." Oh lawd, he thinks I'm a crier. And hello...I'm standing right here.

On the way home, I asked Ron if he noticed how Dylan was describing all the van details to me, specifically. He replied, "That's because I sent him a list of all of my requirements for you." And then he showed me the text:
2015-2018 Odyssey, any color (except black, brown, or white), heated leather seats, Navigational system, luggage rack, hitch, sunroof, DVD player, and premium sound.

So, now he thinks I'm a crier and a spoiled brat??
And I decided to make it my goal to casually mention to Dylan that I don't even know what "premium sound" means, and too bad the van's not black...*sigh*...

The following week, while Dylan finished up the paperwork, he told us to go wait in the van and he'd bring Jordan the tech guy out to explain everything to me. Poor Jordan...stuck with the job of programming my phone contacts into our vehicles and then inevitably having to say the words, "Call Sexy" when he demonstrates how to call my husband while I'm driving. I should tell him I'm normal, too.

But, I never got the chance, because in a horrible twist of fate, I climbed into the front seat of the van, caught whiff of the smell, and jumped back out dry heaving.

When Dylan and Jordan walked out of the building, Ron was sitting in the backseat sniffing deeply, and I had my back against the wall of the garage, covering my mouth and nose with my hands.

Dylan's eyes got big and he asked, "What happened?!" as I'm sure visions of losing this sale spiraled through his head.
Ron answered, "She smells something."

If dude continues to throw me under the bus here, he's gonna find himself permanently riding in the backseat of my not-black-brown-or-white, heated leathered, sun-roofed, premium sounding van.

This was followed by Dylan sitting in the backseat, with Jordan leaning through the front, breathing deeply. Dylan agreed with me that something smelled "off" but I'm also pretty sure Dylan is under the belief that agreeing with me is a general rule that must be adhered to for survival.

He asked me what I thought it smelled like.
I said, "Death."
Because heaven forbid he think I'm dramatic on top of everything else.

Ten minutes later, the vents of the van were covered in brand new air fresheners and a manager was assuring me that if I still smelled death in a few weeks, I could bring it back and they would "neutralize" the smell, which means I'd smell nothing, which he went on to explain that the smell of neutralized nothing can sometimes be off-putting.

As opposed to the smell of death.
Quite the convincing argument.

Before I could burst into tears and say, then I guess I'll just overcome the smell of death through happy thoughts and yoga, I heard my husband cheerfully respond, "Ok! I'm sure it'll go away."

Then we left the dealership and lived happily ever after.

He in his mini-van.
And me in my Pilot.

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