Seven months, count 'em

Man, I'm late. I must catch up.

Which, I might add, isn't a whole lot to catch up on. Let's see, well...I can synopsize the past few days (48 hours) in a much smaller time frame (18 hours). I worked. And I don't really remember much other than that right now, I'm afraid.

Tonight, after visiting my wife at her job, I decided spur-of-the-moment to visit a few car dealerships on my way home. Bad idea. First, you don't just "drop by" dealerships. You park, introduce yourself to Mike or Phil or Edwin or whoever. Then they "invite" you into their wonderfully bright happy office, with 50,000 yellow balloons with smiley faces and banners with inexplicable numbers written all over them.

Then they ask you to sit down (bad news) while they go get a "guest sheet". I always give them bogus information. Always. Because sometimes, I just don't want Edwin knocking at my door, thank you.

After a barage of personal questions relating to everything unnecessary, you proceed to all-defensive mode. And then, for some baffling reason, these salesmen feel prompted to "talk to their manager." Why? Why do you have to talk to your manager when I just informed you, three times, that I wasn't interested in buying anything?

What exactly do they talk about behind those great glass walls?

Why do they like to laugh so much?

I decided to take a gamble and see what they would say if I told them my budget was $35,000. Surprisingly enough, they almost scoffed. They actually pretended that I wouldn't get much for that price....that if I wanted a really family car, I'd be spending much, much more.

And I really love that when you tell them you're interested in a different brand of car, they become extremely belligerent and inform you that you'd only get that car if it were A. Used and B. Teal.

So I have a new rule. When they need to talk to their manager, I walk.

Seven months. Happy anniversary, sweetie. You're the best.

More later.