Part One

I feel it is important for a husband to regularly provide his wife the ammunition with which she will then use at her discretion to regularly remind him what an idiot she married.  I practice what I preach, and have the psychic scars to prove it.

I've been used car shopping.  It's been 3+ years since I delivered my daily driver to my youngest son and I haven't missed having a work horse until recently.  I made my case, Mrs. T and I agreed on a budget, and I set off to research the car of my dreams.

Quickly, I settled upon a most impractical motor car, a boy racer station wagon.  That the gas mileage made Camilla appear thrifty I was able to self justify, I was stumbling over why its over-complexity makes a 12 cylinder Jaguar mechanic blush, but figured no one would know but me, so I could dance around that issue if ever asked. The ever pragmatic Mrs T places automobiles in the same category as kitchen appliances.  They are expected to work always, with minimal human intervention and heaven protect a nickel and dimer and its fatuous owner.

Complex boy racer station wagons are thin on the ground. Imagine.  After looking at and rejecting one too many, it dawned on me why its less complex, less boy racer little sister was, judging by availability, a more rational option.

I found a candidate, a mom car, sold my story to my bride, then went to the dealer to exchange paper for metal, only to find it sold.  Minutes later I purchased my runner up choice, never once mentioning to the love of my life, that the car lived 1200 miles away, cost a smidge over budget and was slightly(?) different than the car we discussed over breakfast.

The story gets worse, so before you hear it from someone else, I promise to share.  Gotta let the bruises heal first.

Toad