In 1972 I owned a Titty Pink (yes, even then it was a proper noun) Ford Galaxie 500. It was my very first car, purchased by a boyfriend too lazy to come pick me up. I left the boyfriend and kept the car.
Despite my recurring dire financial circumstances, every car thereafter looked like a sports car – well, at least in my frequently pickled pea brain. A chocolate brown/gold flecked Sunbird hatchback, a sparkly silver grey Camaro with 4-on-the-floor, and lastly, a Neon Blue Mitsubishi Eclipse.
When the motor block of the Eclipse blew up (thanks to the engine oil-inattentive ex-boyfriend – also known as Mr. Lucky – who had borrowed it) I wanted something new at a reasonable cost. After some research, it came down to a Nissan or a Hyundai.
Off to the new car showrooms I went with reams of research, a blank check and the current boyfriend in tow (only because he insisted).
I started at the Nissan dealership which was selling the car I preferred. I looked the rather eager salesman in the eye and said “I’m buying a new car today. I want this car, in whatever color you have on the lot. I will pay X, in cash, right now.”
And the pin-headed, beer-bellied, comb-over Nissan salesman looked at the boyfriend sitting in the background and started his side of the conversation with “you know, sir, the (upgraded) X car is much safer for the little lady” and proceeded to discuss engine performance. When I finally got his attention, he smiled benignly and pointed out the lighted make-up mirror and cup holders.
I bought a Hyundai. From someone who paid attention. At my price, and (as it turned out) with my credit card because the points were enough for a free round trip airline ticket. I used the blank check to pay off the balance when the statement arrived.
Cup holders my ass.