We'll Take It in Red, Dickhead (Rhyming is Fun!)

Husband recently (i.e. – yesterday) began a new job. He is very excited about, so I am also very excited about it because, quite frankly, I like when he’s happy. He has been super supportive of me and my increasingly downscale career moves, so I am extra glad that he is now getting his chance to do things that he enjoys.

The downside of all this is that the new job is not in New York City. It is not easily commutable by train, either. To take the train, he would first need to take the subway, walk several blocks to the train station, then be on the train for about an hour, and then take a bus to his office complex. Plus there is limited train availability for reverse commuters, so that would add another layer of pressure on him in terms of getting there and back.

Thus he decided that we should buy a car and rent a space in a garage. That way the commute will only be an hour each way, the downside being that he can’t read or sleep on the ride. Still, he feels it would give him more flexibility, so after much research and tryouts with rental cars, we settled on a PT Cruiser in either red or blue, and headed to the dealership on 11th Avenue and 48th Street.

I have never owned a car before, and one of the things that I love about living in New York City is that I do not need to drive. I hate driving, although I know how to do it and can tolerate doing so if I must. At the dealership this evening, we found a red PT Cruiser that met our needs and took it out for a little spin. Initially, I did not plan to test drive it in Manhattan in rush hour, but the streets were rather empty, so I gave it a whirl. The car was overall great, although my two minor beefs were that the steering wheel has a weird extra plastic piece on the bottom that slammed into my knees when I pulled the seat almost all the way up so that my feet would reach the pedals, and that there is an even weirder plastic piece on the side of the windshield that creates a small blind spot when turning left, creating the perfect opportunity to run over someone crossing the street.

Despite these eensey flaws, we loved Fred the Red (yes, we named it already) and went to sign the papers. Here is where I became increasingly angry. The sales guy, who was something of an idiot, mumbled something about joint registration on the vehicle. He then proceeded to ask only Husband what his profession and income are. When he was about to put away the form, I said, “Um, what about me? We want both our names on the registration.”

The sales douche looked shocked. “OK,” he said. “Do you have a driver’s license?” (No, I just drove around 11th Avenue with no license.) After he photocopied my license, he wrote down my basic info. Then he looked up and once again insulted me. “Do you work?” he asked. When he spoke to Husband, he did not ask him whether he worked, but rather where he worked. Then he chatted him up for a bit about what he did. What a fucking asshole! Granted, we could tell he was a complete fuckwad throughout the whole process, as he repeatedly tried to sell us insurance, but not once did he even bother trying to sell us any amenities for the car (like a better sound system). I might add that he also wore a hideous pink shirt with a clashing pink striped tie, so he might be mentally deficient, which is about the only way I would excuse him for acting as though it is 1954.

Maybe I should have told him he can suck my dick if he can't treat me with the same respect as he grants my husband.