Jen's Column / The "Controversial One"

Hey everyone! I wrote this column for last Wednesday's edition of the P-B... but then the publisher decided he couldn't run it for fear of angering advertisers. (So frustrating!) So consider this a Haugenkoski Blogski Exclusive!

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Our van died. It was a slow and painful death marked by considerable jerking, audible shifting and frightful revving at all the wrong times. When the mechanic called to tell us we'd need a new transmission, we decided to cut our losses. It would be, after all, the second transmission we'd be replacing in as many years.

And so we found ourselves in need of a new vehicle — and fast. I'm not going to mince words here: There are thousands of things I would rather do than negotiate the purchase of a new car. I would, for example, rather relive my firstborn's 30-plus hour delivery. I would rather have a cavity filled without Novocain. I would rather wear the same pair of underwear everyday for two weeks.

It boils down to this: I hate the game — the whole bargaining and finagling and negotiating required when buying a car. It's scary and uncomfortable and yucky. (Yes, I believe "yucky" is the technical term.) At least if I'm buying, say, a crock pot, I can check the ads in the weekend paper, see which store has the best deal and go there to buy it. I don't have to stare down the check-out lady and say, "Take off five dollars and throw in that bag of baby carrots and you have yourself a deal, missy."

However, seeing as the death of our van left us car-less, we had no choice. My husband and I hit nearly every lot in town on Saturday to test drive the models we liked best. To take off the pressure, we told each salesperson our plan: Drive. Go home to research. Return… later. They were all cool with that, except for the guy who said those dreaded words: "So, what can I do to get you to drive this car off the lot today?"

"You can't," I answered, panic setting in.

"Nothing…?" he asked in a singsong voice. "There's nothing I can do?"

"We're not buying today," I screeched, rising from my chair. "And you can't make us!"
OK, maybe I didn’t say that last part. But I felt like it.

Once we narrowed our search to two vehicles, we typed our fingers bloody researching options, invoice prices and incentives. We called other area dealerships. We polled our friends.

Two days of reconnaissance work later, we found ourselves at the Honda dealership for a second test-drive of the CR-V. Its handling on the snow-packed roads was almost as impressive as its power moonroof. We returned to the dealership with our decision made, and I steeled myself for a hostile encounter with Ryan, our salesman.

"OK," I said, daring him to pull out his best stuff. "Try to sell it to us."

"Great," he said. "Why don't you give me a number, and I'll talk to my manager."

My poker face broke. "No! Please, please, pleeeeease don't do that to us," I begged. "I loathe this process — loathe it." I waved my little paper with numbers scrawled across it. "Listen. We did our research. We know what the invoice price is. We know what other area dealers are asking. Can we skip the game and just settle on a price that's fair for everyone?" I waved my paper again. "Please…?"

"Absolutely," Ryan said. "We can do that."

Had my husband not been there, I might've kissed that salesman.

True to his word, Ryan came back with a number that was fair — and lower than the "bottom-line prices" we'd been quoted elsewhere.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," I told my husband back at home. It could've been the relief talking, though. If all goes according to plan, we won't have to do this again for another 10, 12 — maybe even 20 years.