Pimp My Ride

I am not a car gal. I know nothing about cars, ABS, GPS, MPG, cylinders, FWD, fuel efficiency, etc. I know where to put the gas in. I know the color of my car. That's it. I get my oil changed when it beeps at me. Same goes for fuel. I get the car washed when my husband asks me what color my car is supposed to be. I get a new car when my lease is up. Selecting a new car involves my husband asking me a bunch of questions about what features I'd like on my new car. My demands are limited to color, magic slidey doors and a DVD player for long trips. Anything else above and beyond that and my brain freezes up. I look at Paul with a Scooby Doo look and say "huh" until he gives up and decides. Last Friday, Paul called me and said we could turn in my current car for a new car. The salesman called to ask me a bunch of questions that made no sense to me. I explained that all I cared about or understood was color selection and magic doors that open with the press of a button. He explained that he had a cool new upgraded version of my car with a magic door for the hatch, a rear-view camera, and a "cool box". Now I am intrigued by these Jetson-style features. The camera allows me to back up without backing into or over things (like Paul's car). The cool box, he explained with a sigh, is a small storage area that will keep water or pop cool. Seriously? Am I being punked? My car can have a permanent stash of chilled Diet Coke at the press of a button? At this point, I am ready to sign over my husband's 401k plan for this pimped-out ride. Reality check. These fun gizmos cost money. So I chat him up, explain why I am deserving of such necessities, despite what my husband might be telling him on the other line. I am not hopeful. If Paul thought I could control a horse and buggy, he would have me driving Amish-style around town. I give him a beauty pageant contestant speech about how the world would be a better place if I had this car. No one is more deserving of this tricked out car. I wait by the phone for a few minutes, anxiously waiting to hear news of my fate. Will I be driving a horse and buggy from now on? Or will I be cruising around town in my super-fly, tricked out mini-van, sipping Diet Coke while listening to XM radio? Paul calls me back (finally). He informs me that we got the super fancy car with all the gadgets that Paul will have to show me how to use. Then, almost fearing the answer, he asks me, "What exactly did you say to the salesman? Because he practically gave away the car." My lips are sealed. And my ride is totally pimped out and awesome.