A Car Buyer's Guide to Marriage

Last month I "celebrated" 18 years of marriage. So, at a point when so few marriages seem to last for any significant amount of time, you may be hoping I can offer some insights into how I have managed this feat. I believe the key is thinking of husbands in terms of cars. You may wonder, what brings about this unusual theory? Well, I have done intense research over these last 18 years, and by "intense research" I mean I have observed and heard my fellow wives' experiences, and I have found husbands all have similar factory defects. I think the secret to surviving marriage is in recognizing that all women discover these warps in their own husbands, no matter which style they selected. And knowing this can be the difference between going quietly insane over time, and life in prison. While this may discourage some, I have found it liberating to know that I can do no better than the model I currently possess. It might help you understand if I point out a few examples of these common deficiencies.

Malfunctioning Audio System-- One day I am at my sister's house chatting in the kitchen. My brother-in-law is sitting on the couch watching TV. My sister leaves the kitchen and goes to stand next to him. There she informs him of something that she needs him to do. He responds. First he nods his head; he even goes so far as to verbally reply to several parts of the apparent conversation. I am envious. I wish my model was this engaged.

Often I speak to him and he never reacts, then when I repeat myself he'll bark, "I heard you the first time!" Except, of course, when I don't repeat myself, he'll later come back and bark, "You never told me that!"

             Anyway, back to my sister, because it's just funnier when it isn't happening to me. She finishes this lively encounter and rejoins me in the kitchen where we continue to visit for a few minutes. Suddenly, her husband appears in the doorway looking confused.

            "Were you talking to me?" he asks earnestly. My sister is dumbfounded.

             "Who did you think I was talking to? I was standing right next to you!"

             "I don't know," he says.

            "But you answered me!" she says incredulously.

             "Yeah," he replies, "I have no idea what you said."

 He says this casually as though it is fairly common for him. I am not only delighted; I find it hard to hold in my laughter as the scene unfolds. Do I feel for my sister? Of course. But more importantly, I'm relieved. Her model is no better than mine. Sure, her model came with the ability to look like he was listening, but I'm not certain that feature was useful. At least with mine, I'm certain that no matter what I say, it won't be heard, including "I'm taking the credit card" and "I'll be out Friday night, so it's just you and the kids." My sister, on the other hand, has a model which leaves her in a constant state of uncertainty.

Busted On-Board Repair Kit-- Recently my sister's husband has suffered recurrent pain from an injury he sustained doing some physical labor in which she cannot recall him participating. This chronic pain is in his shoulder, which seems to randomly cause so much agony that a nap on the couch is the only remedy. His lawn has not been mowed for almost six weeks because it inflames the injury. Playing video games for countless hours back-to-back does not seem to have an adverse affect on this injury. Nor do hours of computer gaming or the occasional golf game. However, the pain is so bad that often he will be found grinding the offending shoulder into a doorframe, with the belief that he can compress the spot into submission.

She, of course, asks the same question I always ask my husband when he is suffering from one of those headaches that only five solid hours of uninterrupted World of Warcraft and a subsequent five hour nap can cure: "Did you take something for it?"

As women, we have come early in life to the knowledge that a good anti-inflammatory can cure ungodly, excruciating pain.  Never in my life has non-stop Mario Brothers relieved an agonizing case of cramps, an anemic headache, or the ache in my hips from excess water retention. But a little pill or two can do wonders. Maybe they need to develop Midol for men. Anyway, as you may know from your own model of husband, the answer is always,  "No."

 I don't know if they are just ashamed to admit their inability to break through the childproof cap, or they fear that finding relief in this manner will prove them less manly. Either way, not only did it never occur to them, but even after the suggestion is made, they will rarely actually seek assistance outside self-treatment. Furthermore, they resist the idea of paying for treatment by a professional. However, when finally they are coerced against their will to make that visit to the medical professional, they gladly accept a prescription which better enables them to take a longer, more effective nap, undisturbed by our resentful vacuuming all around them.

Damaged Roadside Assistance Package-- This disturbing defect is found in all models. They seem to think you can milk another 100 miles out of a gas tank despite the gauge registering "E" for the last 3 days. I honestly believe that in a bar somewhere at this very moment, there's a group of husbands, of several models, that are telling their own "big fish" stories about how far they were able to drive after their gauge registered a full inch below the "E."

Now one of two things usually happens when one owns a model with Roadside Assistance problems.  The first is inevitably you are the unfortunate woman who receives a car in this condition, with no warning that the previous user has run it dry despite your filling it just the day before. And a quick dash to the market results in a seven hour roadside respite in either: a torrential downpour; a 114 degree summer afternoon; or my personal favorite, a dark secluded street, where you are eventually rewarded with an outrageously priced can of gas from a tow truck driver who at least three times "flatters" you with salacious and uncomfortable flirtations. Those lucky enough to have connected with a husband who will bring the can of gas himself inevitably have to hear how they must have been driving "wrong" because he knows that car should easily have been able to run another four days past the "E."

The second incident which occurs from Roadside Assistance damage is the even more delightful Family Vacation Disaster. This one usually occurs on a summer trip, so at least there's no suspense here. It will be on the long stretch of deserted highway in the 114 degree weather. Usually the husband is driving and there is an effort being made to "make good time." This one is enhanced by: a minivan full of cranky children at least one of whom has an immediate need to pee; a wife who repeatedly warned that not stopping 75 miles ago would result in this very occurrence; a husband model who is convinced that it was the extra weight of the family which made his calculations inaccurate and that they would have made it if little Jenny had just left that second pair of sandals at home. The joy of this situation is that rather than roadside stewing alone like the first predicament, you get the opportunity to continue to agitate your spouse until one of you is drawing up a rough draft divorce agreement on the back of the unused map from the glove compartment, and the other is pondering how much witnessing murder with a fast food straw will traumatize the kids. The bonus factor here is that the tow truck driver will keep his indecent proposals to himself, but the price of the five gallons of gas will be just like getting raped and will mean you can no longer afford for one of the kids to go to Disneyland this trip

Inoperative "Geartronic" Microprocessor-- My sister was leaving on a three day trip. (I'm not picking on her, there's just less of a chance of damaging my own marriage if I continue using hers for an example.) She was leaving her humongous puppy behind. The puppy had never spent the night alone or outdoors. She wanted to take the puppy on a test drive for about a week before they left, just to be sure the dog could manage being left out overnight alone. She told her husband who then decided the dog-hut they already owned was not enough protection from the pleasant spring weather and that he wanted to construct a proper dog house. Fine. The dog slept in the house that night and the next before my sister inquired about the build. She was then informed that a set of plans involving graph paper and drafting tools had been drawn up, but that it would take about three weeks to construct. Undaunted, she informed him that he had three days, and the dog slept in the house another night. The next day her husband spent a better part of the daylight hours making a necessary repair to the car for their journey. This way they would only run out of gas, rather than need a full engine replacement on this trip. The dog slept inside that night. My brother-in-law spent the following day alternately pressing his shoulder into a doorjamb and taking medication-induced naps on the couch, in order to recover from his labors the day before. And that night the dog slept in the house. The next day my sister called and asked me to sleep in her house with the dog while she was away. I was more than happy to and suggested she may one day want to take a look at the beautiful blueprints and three dimensional scale model of a cradle my husband is fabricating for my newborn son, who is currently 17 years old.

Automatic Transmission Slippage-- When I met my husband, one of his selling points was a unique feature I hadn't seen in any other model. He ironed his jeans. This by implication meant he washed them, too. Additionally, he had a system for folding his shirts, which were also washed. He liked to cook, which while less rare in the make was still a feature not offered in most standard models. He washed his dishes immediately after eating the food he cooked, and he owned his own vacuum, which he knew how to use. His mail was in an ordered stack, his bed was made, and his place was cleaner than mine. Clearly his factory had invested a lot of time and energy into manufacturing a "Best in Class" model. He wasn't even pre-owned! I was intoxicated by that "new husband" smell so I snatched him off the market as quickly as possible. I probably should have looked under the hood more carefully. I think the engine had been polished up for my benefit. I wish I could tell you what happened. Shortly after I made my down-payment and the contract was signed the automatic transmission I bought converted to manual! Worse yet, my children inherited this conversion technique. The vacuum sits in the hall closet buried under a pile of winter coats. It makes an appearance once every few months for social occasions. And did anyone else know men can live out of the dryer? Needless to say, the jeans and shirts don't get folded, much less ironed. He still cooks, but the dishes are a lost cause. I've given up on washing them, since they never seem to find their way back to the kitchen.  I just buy new dishes every few weeks, usually paper ones. Last week a spoon from three sets ago turned up in the car. I assume it had gone to visit all the lost socks from the dryer, but finding none of its kind returned, only to discover it had been replaced by a plastic spork.

Now the fun part of this manual transmission trouble is that I have discovered one trick which will jumpstart some of that old automatic magic. Early in my marriage I found that little jobs which needed doing around the house were always on some invisible list but never seemed to make the final cut. One day, after being thrown violently off a broken toilet seat, I decided I would just fix it myself. How hard could it be?  After all, we had already purchased the new seat last year when the old seat had first broken. I examined the job. The first thing that needed to be done was to remove the old seat. Since I had no tools to speak of I went to get a cousin of the "car" spoon. I marched through my living room, eight months pregnant, with the new seat in one hand and a butter-knife in the other. Startled, my husband followed to inquire into my intentions. He may have anticipated something kinky, I don't know.

 Upon hearing my objective he said,        "You can't do it that way! Move. Let me do it."

Tools appeared and, just like that, his automatic transmission revved into gear. An hour later I had a repaired toilet seat. In the past I have attacked my car which needed oil, a lamp that needed a new light bulb, and a dining room chair that needed paint, all with a butter knife, and each time the transmission kicked into gear and showed me the "proper" way to do the job. But beware, if you overuse "The Butter-knife Theory" (like I did) you begin to look too industrious and your transmission will fail completely.

 To be fair, I'm sure husbands can point out some similar flaws in their wife's make. If she ever asked, "Does this make my butt look big?" she clearly has a defect in her Rear Differential. If she's worried about her Dual Airbags deflating maybe she needs fewer Vanity mirrors. Many wives come with a factory installed Spoiler which is too high maintenance. And more than a few models could use some work on their Climate Control options. I don't think I've ever met a husband whose wife didn't come equipped with faulty Ignition Timing, so he can't even turn her on and off when he wants. That's got to be frustrating!

In addition some wives really do get lemons, not just little defects. In some instances it's a case of extremely delayed sticker shock. She may suddenly become aware that she can't afford to pay the price originally agreed upon. She didn't see the fine print and the hidden fees. She got a husband model with aborted Electronic Stability Controls or a defective Theft Deterrent System. He had a great exterior but poor performance in the long run or no Towing Capacity. Worse, a few models have failed Safety Equipment which creates dangerous conditions for driving. Factory recalls that belong in the first junk yard you pass. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Still, I have in the past few years noticed an increase in women around me wanting to trade in their current husbands in search of newer models with better features, and more options than the standard model they originally selected. They feel they have outgrown their previous purchase, and they are trading up. Their old model has a few scratches and dents, or the interior has gotten lumpy.  Perhaps it uses more gas than it did during the test drive. Simple wear and tear issues.  It probably does need some major repairs after a few years of fully-loaded hard-driving and excessive use of the emergency brake. Who isn't looking for a little more "Torque" or some "Four on the Floor" performance action? (I don't even know what these things are, but they sound like a lot of fun, don't they?)

                Here is the benefit of my few years of limited experience and research. There are NO better makes available. This year's husband is the same as your old make, your mother's make, and that clunker your great-grandmother drug through life. You may get another model, but it's just the same husband with a fancy interior or a newer paint job. Oh, there may be one or two special amenities that weren't featured on the original, like Optional Seat Warmers, but the minor defects all seem to be about the same. It's a lateral move at best. Stick with the original model because marriage is a great deal more complicated than purchasing a car-- and if you have ever purchased a vehicle you will understand the magnitude of this statement. 

            The fundamental keys, for me at least, have been these: Classics increase in value, but only after a period of time where you couldn't give them away, and you have to be willing to put a lot of work into them first. Husbands aren't cars, and marriage doesn't come with an Extended Warranty. Most of all, the journey isn't even worth making if you're just planning on putting it on Cruise Control. Enjoy the ride.  And that's how I've managed the first 18 years, for better or worse.