Buying a New Car--Installment #1

I had fully planned on writing this post earlier today, but somehow my entire day disappeared between changing the laundry loads (oh, and reading Catching Fire). A day late . . .

 When do you know it's time to buy a new Suburban?

It depends on whether you're a man or a woman.

Woman: 
Every time you go over a speed bump, or even a manhole cover, the power locks unlock then lock again.  The alarm sounds for the count of eight, while the ABS light and regular brake lights illuminate for five seconds.  Oh, and did I mention the code that comes across the screen warns you to "service brake system"?

When the car acts like that for two-three months and you mention it to your husband every few days, then it's time to get a new car. 

Man:
Wife complains that the car is acting erratically. You evaluate her statements, then decide it's really not that bad, so we should just live with it, because who wants to spend thousands on a new vehicle?

After two-three months of insistence from wife, take car to the shop, where you spend over $800 diagnosing and replacing faulty sensors.  Two days later, car pulls the same pranks on wife as she's driving, except this time, car adds a bonus feature: at 50 mph, vehicle completely dies--no steering, no power, no nothing.  Take the car back to the shop, where the mechanic begins to think your wife is crazy and says it's only a loose battery  cable, which they tighten for free (and even deliver the car back to your home, free of charge).

Wife drives car 45 miles from home, thinking all is well, when she hits her first rough patch on a dirt road in her four-wheel-drive vehicle, only to be greeted with the all-too-familiar "click-click" of the locks, flashes of light and dinging alarms.  Wife calls husband who is just glad she can get home without him driving 90 miles to retrieve her and crappy car.

Later that afternoon as you drive the whole family to a piano recital and the dashboard electronic circus performs every two-three minutes, you shout at the top of your lungs: "I am done with this @#$**^ car!"  then it's time to get a new car.

When do you know the price on a used-but-new-to-you Suburban is fair and that this will be your car for the next seven years?  

It depends on whether you're a man or a woman.

Woman:
After spending a few hours searching vehicles on the internet, you narrow your search to four or five, email the sellers, then go look at the vehicles. You drive a few and find your favorite. When the price seems reasonable and the salespeople ask for a copy of your driver's license and insurance card, you know this will be your car for the next seven years.

Man:
After spending hours searching online, driving a few, and dickering with the salespeople, you hand over your driver's license and search for your insurance card, only to walk out with papers on the table when seemingly nice salespeople sneak in over $800 in fees, saying, "Never mind."

Two days later, salespeople at the dealership call you back, saying they've been able to drop the price of the vehicle by $500, will that make up for the undisclosed fees?  You meet them at this point, and you know this will be your car for the next seven years.

How do you dispose of a lemon Suburban that you've been driving for six months too long?

It depends on whether you're a man or a woman.

Woman:
When husband relents to buy a new car, you promise whatever it takes to get said lemon out of your garage.  Yes, I'll sell it privately.  Yes, I'll list it on Craigslist.  Whatever it takes.

Man:
After taking said lemon Suburban to the mechanic four times in a week with no clear diagnosis or solution to mysterious dinging, unlocking, and flashing, you abandon all Craigslist plans and you weasel a trade-in clause into your agreement from two days prior, taking the money offered and squealing out of the parking lot in your new ride, hoping to clear the lot before the mechanic hits a speed bump in the parking lot and the electronic circus begins anew.

This tale may or may not be embellished to entertain the masses.  You decide.