Well, the time has come. It is time to start looking at new rigs (yes, I said rigs, it’s much easier than saying “vehicle”). My poor Honda, with about 230k miles, has seen better days and it’s time to get the ball rolling on something a bit more spacious. We’re in no hurry, but in about 18 months (when we plan to add the 3rd and final munchkin to the Briels bunch), my car will no longer fit us – 3 carseats in an Accord just isn’t something I want to try.
New rigs mean car lots, and car lots mean car salesmen. Slimey, icky, yucky salesmen. I realize there are some great people that work in the auto retail industry, I do, it just seems that I never get to deal with those folks. I get the know-it-all, sexist pig, who thinks I’m some dumb chick who doesn’t know my head from my ass.
Now, I may not know everything, but I pretty much always know what I want. This means that when I say I want a GMC Acadia, 2008 or newer, front-wheel drive, and seating for 8, that’s what I want. Nowhere in that last sentence did I elude to wanting a suburban. That, however, is exactly what the slimey lovely salesman tried to sell me today. Don’t get me wrong, I love suburbans, but their gas mileage doesn’t fit so lovely with my lifestyle of driving 75+ miles a day. So no, a suburban is NOT what I want, thank you Mr. Salesman.
Anyone else deal with this lately? Am I just overly bitchy? Nevermind, don’t answer, I’m going to live in my world where I think I’m sweet at pie.