THE CAR QUEST. Part 2. Have an Identity Crisis

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I read the behind-the-scenes Edmunds series. I studied specs and reviews of dozens of cars. I talked to friends who drive my top candidates. I knew my budget. I knew what general features I most wanted (leather), what was optional (moonroof -- sigh.) and what I'd skip (spoilers, GPS).

I was ready.

Except for one thing.

Which car did I most want??

Which really translated into: WHO AM I??

source: Round About Show

For some people a car is wheels and a seat. They think it says nothing about them.

I say, that says something about them.

I'm the kind of person who gleans meaning from a hairstyle, the kind of cocktail someone orders, a person's ringtone or lack of one.

So am I a mid-career professional looking to impress someone, anyone, with her ride? For a while I started to think so, but then I realized there's no one to impress but myself (and my pocketbook), since I don't usually do business with image conscious types. Forget that.

Am a mother (not yet, but buying a car with that in mind) looking for a roomy backseat and a quiet cabin, perfect for sleeping triplets? (Hey, gotta be ready for anything!)

Or am I an ambitious young professional looking to maximize gas mileage, zip through traffic in a cute little thing and be comfortable along the way?

Do I love to pass people on the highway? A little too much.

Would I be comfortable driving something boring safe and slow, in exchange for a roomy interior and cruise control? Er, maybe!?

So there it was, an identity crisis -- sporty, stately, kid friendly, city friendly, all or none of the above?

Mr. A tried to help. He knows a ton about cars, and he knows a ton about me. :) He drives a Civic and has been very pleased with it. I asked him to help me narrow down which of the following cars packs the best balance of sexy features, comfortable drive, affordability and a solid repair track record.

Recap:

Me: What do you think between the Mazda 3 or 6, the Hyundai Elantra, a VW, a Toyota, a Volvo, another Nissan, or, what else?

Him:  How about a Honda Civic?

Me: I tried one and didn't really like it. It was a 2012 model, and those are getting bad reviews.

Him: How about a 2011?

Me: No, I want something... different. More energetic, more alive.

Him: Like a Civic? It's super reliable. You'll never see them on the side of the road.

Me: I think I'm leaning toward the Elantra.

Him: Why don't you test drive a 2011 Civic and we'll go from there?

Me: Thanks, darling! I think we narrowed it down!

Next step: Unleashing the internet negotiation elves.

THE CAR QUEST. Part 1. Watch A Witty Video

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It's been a month since I almost bought Toyota Camry, and I was hoping to kick off this series with good news about a new dark red sedan I bargained down to the price I was shooting for. Instead, my wizened white Nissan is still chugging along and I haven't yet found the right car for the right price. 

But I'm a lot closer!!

Here is my approach, so far.

Part 1. Research

source: Consumerist

I've spent months looking at cars, test driving, figuring out my needs and wants, and reading about how car sales work and how to negotiate.

Here are the three most useful shopping tools I've found.

1. Truecar.com suggests a car's price based on what people have actually paid and gets dealers in your area to offer a lower than MSRP price online. Not necessarily the lowest you can go, but definitely a better place to start.

2. In this video, Rob Gruhl teaches aspiring hagglers some car buying ninja tricks. Witty and informative. Worth every second.

3. And in this series of articles on Edmunds, "Confessions of a Car Salesman,"a reporter goes undercover to learn the insider tricks of car dealerships. For example, remember that worksheet they always bring out with four squares? Here's how dealers use it to squeeze you out of every cent you can pay:

The next step in my training involved the use of the "4-square work sheet." Michael told me the 4-square was my friend, it was the salesman's tool for getting "maximum gross profit." As the name implies, the sheet is divided into four sections. When you have a prospect "in the box" (in the sales cubicle) you pull out a 4-square and go to work. 

[...] 

The process begins by asking the customer how much they want for a monthly payment. Usually, they say, about $300. "Then, you just say, '$300... up to?' And they'll say, 'Well, $350.' Now they've just bumped themselves $50 a month. That's huge." You then fill in $350 under the monthly payment box. 

Michael said you could use the "up to" trick with the down payment too. "If Mr. Customer says he wants to put down $2000, you say, "Up to?" And he'll probably bump himself up to $2500." Michael then wrote $2,500 in the down payment box of the 4-square worksheet.

I later found out this little phrase "Up to?" was a joke around the dealership. When salesmen or women passed each other in the hallways, they would say, "Up to?" and break out laughing. 

The final box on the 4-square was for the trade-in. This was where the most profit could be made. Buyers are so eager to get out of their old car and into a new one, they overlook the true value of the trade-in. The dealership is well aware of this weakness and exploits it. 

The opening numbers were now in place on the 4-square. At a glance, Michael said, you could see the significant numbers of this deal — purchase price of the car, trade-in, down payment and the monthly payments. As you negotiated you could move from box to box, making progress as you went. It allowed you to sell a car in different ways. For example, if the customer was determined to get full value for his trade-in, you could take extra profit elsewhere — in the purchase price or maybe even in financing. 

The first numbers that go on the 4-square come from the customer. The down payment and the monthly payment are only what they would like to pay. Now, it's time to get the numbers that the dealership would like the customer to pay. These numbers are called the "first pencil" and they come from a sales manager in the tower. Michael said that the first pencil was the dealership's starting position. "You have to hit them high," Michael explained. "You have to break them inside — make them understand that if they want our beautiful new car, they're going to have to pay for it." 

[...] 

This reminded Michael of something and he laughed. "Here's another thing. Never give the customer even numbers. Then it looks like you just made them up. So don't say their monthly payment is going to be $400. Say it will be $427. Or, if you want to have some fun, say it will be $427.33."

The whole series takes a while to read through, and it was written 10 years ago, but it was a worthwhile education. (More on the Four Squares of Death at the Consumerist.)

So that was my basic training. Next step, deciding which car to buy.

How I almost spent too much on a car I didn't want

I write to you as the proud owner of a...

1995 Nissan Maxima.

That's right. After a day of test drives and dealer chats, and several weeks of research and calculations, I drove away last Saturday from a Toyota dealership with my old car... and a big load off my shoulders. I started the day sure I'd buy a car, or at least come very close. What went wrong? It was a combination of 3 things:

1. I didn't get the price I wanted.

2. I didn't get the price I wanted.

3. I didn't get the price I wanted.

Mr. A and I visited four dealerships, test driving and talking numbers: Hyndai, Honda, VW and Toyota. Some salesmen were eager to negotiate, and others were as starchy as their shirt collars. The day ended in a Toyota showroom, where negotiations broke down over a big comfy Camry and we were invited into the sales manager's office for one last attempt.

"So you've been here for HOURS, TRYING to buy a car," the manager said, like the high school principal who pops in on detention challenging his problem students to behave. Drained, disgusted, but institutionally trained to persevere.

"Oh, and here I thought you were trying to sell us a car," Mr. A answered. Good one, amore!

"I see there's a difference of (he looked down, calculating)... of $500 between the figure you wrote down and what we're asking. Over the life of the car, that's $7 per month. Now you're a coffee drinker, right?"

"I am," I answered.

"So give up two lattes a month! You want to walk away over $7! That's NOTHING!"

"If it's nothing, why don't you go for the price we wrote here?" I asked, pointing to the figure.

"I'm giving you a great deal here."

"Not good enough."

"I'm not going any lower. That's my final offer."

Thoughts raced. Should I go for it? Was it a good price? It was so close to the price I told them I wanted. But it didn't feel right. Was I wrong? We'd gotten them to drop from $23,500 to $19,500. But the car had some features I didn't want, which I'd still be paying for. And it was a 2011 model, which I was confident another dealer would be willing to offload for less as next year's cars arrive. And, between you and me, I wasn't really into that car. Not enough to deserve spluring.

"Thanks but no thanks."

We walked out and I suddenly felt liberated. I had come this close to buying a car with features I didn't want for more than I wanted to spend.

Five minutes later, he called back offering to lower the price by $250. I passed.

In the next post, a few reflections, resources and suggestions.

Day 8 of 30: Yet another miraculous save for the car that refuses to die (AKA: Cash discount?)

I heart this icon.

Exactly halfway to my meeting yesterday evening, 7 miles into a 15 mile trip, my car stated wobbling and the check engine light started flashing. I was in the car with a colleague, so we turned around, headed back to the office and took his car instead. Made it to the destination only 10 minutes late.

I was thrilled.

Miles, my trusty Nissan, just hit 150,000 miles, and after a few mishaps and miraculous saves by Mr. A (for which I truly am grateful), it seems to have another five good years left. I am very attached to this car. We've been on 4.5 cross country road trips, including two moves. It's a comfortable extension of my purse, with a spare pair of shoes and bottle of wine waiting for any eventualities. It has endured being towed and ticketed, with the dignity of an aging patriarch.

Ok, that makes no sense, but I’m not going to delete it. Moving on.

I love the dear thing.

But it’s time to say good bye.

I started considering my options. Mazda 2? Cute, compact. Just no horsepower. Would I really miss that? Maybe, but how could I argue with that pricetag ($14k new). Or a Mini? My cousin is in love with hers, and I could definitely see myself zooming around town in the dark red one… Or go upmarket and test drive a used Audi, to see what that German engineering is all about.

Then Mr. A presented a more sensible idea. Repair it. Sell it when it’s driveable. And certainly don’t buy a car under duress. (This short and funny video has a lot of fantastic advice. Mr. A is right -- I definitely don't want to need a new car.)

This morning, he dropped it off with Les, who is the most reliable mechanic we’ve encountered in San Diego and a few blocks from our house. He gave an estimate that was, unfortunately, not over my budget or tolerance level, so I decided to pay up for another round of repairs.

Just over an hour ago, I picked it up. It was the fuel injector.

The invoice said $319.80.

“If I pay with cash or a check, how about a little discount?”

“We’ll make it even.”

“$300?” I confirmed.

“Yes. If you pay check or cash. Credit card companies charge me 2 percent. That’s on top of the interest they charge you.”

“Well thank you very much for the discount. I know you do a great job on my car.”

I wrote him a check, he gave me the keys and I zoomed off to a café to do some writing.

Lost: Hope that I’ll buy a new car before the weekend.

Saved: $20. I guess every breakdown can have a silver lining.

Question: Does any car, past or present, have a special place in your heart? Let's wax poetic for a moment! (Sigh. Letting go of Miles will be so hard. Yet so easy...)

image source: http://www.cartuningcentral.com/the-check-engine-light

No parking ticket!?

[image credit]

Thursday morning, June 17, I was meting with a client and a colleague in my office's conference area.

The client walked in worried about not having enough money for the parking meter and I assured her that the meeting would be over before her meter expired.

It wasn't.

As we were wrapping things up, she looked at the clock, saw she was overdue on the meter and told us she needed to leave. She started gathering her things and saying goodbye when, from our second floor office window, I saw it: the meter maid mobile, pulling up to the client's car.

"Meter maid!!!!!" I screamed and grabbed the quarters someone had instantly produced and shoved into my palm.

"Gooooooooooooooo!!!!!" they all screamed back.

I leapt down the stairs, sprang out the door and bounded across the street.

"Please!" I gasped. "It just expired! Here are quarters! Please no ticket! I know once you start writing the ticket you can keep going but please, please -- here are quarters!!"

She meter maid shot me an amused glance and gave her verdict. "Man, you're fast. Ok."

"THANK YOU!"

Upstairs, I saw them all leaning out the window and I shot them a thumbs up. When I walked in, we all high-fived. You see, they were under the impression that the client escaped the ticket because I had sprinted down and stopped the meter maid.

But I'll tell the real you why no ticket was issued.

Because it wasn't my car.

I am a ticket magnet. Remember those 3 tix I appealed and I promised seven whopping months ago to update you about? I FINALLY recently got the last of the three verdicts: all rejected. I tried lying (for this experiment, naturally ;) ), I tried citing policy, and I even tried being nice and sweet. Fail. Fail. Fail. (Here was that original post: http://thedailyasker.blogspot.com/2009/12/3-parking-tickets-3-askings-let-games.html)

One more example: Just a few days ago I met with a different client at his establishment and for 10 minutes I kept saying, "I have to run and feed my meter. I'll be right back." The conversation kept going, I didn't extricate myself since it was on the verge of finishing, and when I got to the car, 8 minutes late, there was a ticket on the windshield.

So, the moral for avoiding tix is... Run fast? Always Ask?

Nah, much simpler: Don't be La Roxy.

;)

(Any other strategies??? Dish them below. I'd love to hear your success stories since this is clearly not my forte!!)

Test drive your Yaris?

[video credit]

Pernstein, a D.C. friend, emailed me Monday to say he was in town for work, and would I like to have dinner?

Mr. A and I took him to one of our favorite restaurants (Urban Solace), and at the end of the night the conversation turned to his rental car.

"How are you liking it?" I asked.

"I think it's nice."

"Is the engine peppy enough?"

"Depends what you mean by peppy, but yes, it's fine. I kind of like it, actually."

"Really!? Because I've been toying with the idea of getting a Yaris, when my car dies, but the one drawback is that I think it's really slow to accelerate."

"It's not."

"What model did you rent, the sedan or the hatchback?"

"The sedan."

"So a hatchback would be even faster... could I try it out? After dinner?"

"You want to test drive my rental car?"

"Yes!"

"Was that whole conversation just a build-up so you could ask me to try my car?"

"No, first I wanted your opinion, and then I wanted to try it, in that order," I answered.

"I'm kind of tired..." Pernstein, whose pseudonym is a mashup of his real name and Bernstein, as in the legendary Washington Post Watergate reporter, was in town for some important business. He was also on east coast time, which means that by the time we were done with dessert it was way past his bedtime. I didn't want to stand between him and his deadline, so I left it at that.

But on the way out of the restaurant, he changed his mind.

"You can take it for a spin."

And that's how I learned that

1) When you hit the gas, a Yaris sedan with two people in it has considerable pep, but the acceleration tapers off after about 7 seconds.

2) It did quite well on the highway, keeping up with traffic and even passing some slowpokes.

3) I could get used to this!

4) Or could I?

Question, gentle reader: Do you drive, or have you ever driven, a Yaris? Especially a hatchback? What's your take? Thanks!

Please let us board without our boarding passes?

I stopped planning for trips long ago.

I'm still excited as ever to travel, but my prep time has gone way ever since since I boarded my first airplane in 1987 and couldn't stop thinking, for weeks before the trip, what we would do, where we would go.

DENVER!!!!

I loved every detail -- the plane's liftable armrest, the cool hotel sheets, the ice cream. And for every trip after that for the next decade and a half, I over-packed and planned everything to the hilt.

Then the Great Departure hit. In 2004 I studied abroad in Paris, and I totally miscalculated how long it would take me to pack. That's because it wasn't merely about two suitcases. I needed to disassemble my bedroom and 1/3 of an apartment, stuff everything I owned into my Nissan Maxima (the very same!), drive my life's possessions across country, to my mom's house in California, before repacking and taking off from San Diego for the Latin Quarter.

Most people might start planning, giving stuff away, selling things on Craigslist, a week or two in advance.

I threw a party.

The mother of all parties. Hundreds of people, two kegs, started vaguely around 6 p.m. and ended the next morning with more couples than I can count making out in various corners of the house. La Sorella came from San Diego and our dad flew in from Texas for the occasion. She toyed with the boys and dad manned the grill while taking on my liberal grad school posse about the Iraq war. (He's a card holding Republican. I still love him very much.)

The next morning our apartment, which I shared with a Belgian anthropology postdoc and an Italophile nanny, looked like a hurricane hit.

I had arrived.

Anyway. After the party I had 48 hours to clean up and get everything ready for my departure. We scrambled. A friend and her dad offered to help. And I made it to San Diego, and eventually Paris, in one piece.

That's when I realized something: So many times I'd prepared and gotten stressed, and I still ended up missing a flight or getting stranded -- strikes, weather, faulty engines always conspired. When I left things to the last minute, I still made my flights.

Arrival at destination was not correlated with the effort I put into getting there.

Ding ding ding! Relevlation!!

What I'm saying is that it's a big fat crapshoot.

And that is where I am now. Throw stuff into a suitcase the morning of any trip shorter than 2 weeks, get to the airport as late as possible (but not recklessly so... I'm not that cocky), and be resigned that shit happens. And if you really need to be somewhere, plan to get there a day or two early. Period.

So before taking off for New York Friday, I decided to have a few people over. I packed the night before, picked up a few munchies and some wine, and opened the door to our incredulous friends. "Don't you need to be at the airport in 2 hours??" "Um, hey, it's almost 7:15. Don't you want to take off?" "It's all good. No worries. More wine?"

At 7:30 some friends kindly gave us a ride (thanks again!!), there were no security lines, we didn't get extra-screened, and at 8:30 we were at the gate for a 9 p.m. flight.

Pulled it off!!

Only.

I. Had. Lost. The. Boarding. Passes.

Both.

Of.

Them.

I dug around my tiny purse, looked in every pocket. Nothing. Between check in and the gate, POOF.

"Is there anything you can do?" I whimpered to Jet Blue's agent. "I can't find them!"

"One I could handle, but two? What's your name?" I told her and she cast a disapproving scowl as she typed madly into her terminal.

"I'm sorry! Maybe I left them at security? Do I have time to get them?"

"Probably not."

"Ah! Can you print out a new pair? Do you need to see my ID?"

Finally, her machine spit out two fresh passes and we were in.

What can I say... No matter how much you prepare, something can go wrong. And no matter how much you don't prepare... something can still go wrong. Or right. At the drop of the hat.

[image via apartment therapy]

Beat your own rate, rental car company?

That was Monday.

As I write this Tuesday night, no asking yet. I've been writing all day. Took a mid-afternoon break for a much needed nutella mascarpone crepe and then buckled down again. Or tried to, since I got very little done in the afternoon and instead, my mind wandered. (This is the kind of sentence I'm loath to write, because people -- loving but enthusiastic people like mommies -- read it and start worrying. And then they start asking. When is your dissertation going to be done? I thought you were going to graduate in the fall!? I mean last year? I mean in 2007? Isn't it supposed to take five years? Why didn't you finish with your friend did back in November? How's her job search going? Why couldn't you concentrate today? What's the matter? At least tell me how many pages you wrote today. Why is that an evil question? Are you sure you don't want to be a professor? Really, honey? Then at least tell me why you can't concentrate? If you relaxed and cleared your mind you'd get a lot more done.

So I avoid such sentences at all costs, and I especially avoid calling attention to them by explaining them at length at the top of my blog posts...)

Maybe this antsiness is a sign I need to shake things up.

Drive to Vegas tonight and ask for a comped room. I could. Nowhere to be tomorrow but wherever I am.

Ask the Colonel's ancestors for half of his 13 secret herbs and spices.

Ask five people in the produce section of the nearest 24-hour supermarket what their least favorite household chore is. Just because.

Ask a travel agent about one-way flights to Fiji.

But wait a minute.

I did ask for something. Something simple, but valid nonetheless. I tried to obtain a discounted rental car rate.

I will need to drive to an airport in Texas on an upcoming trip, and after zeroing in on some reasonable prices online I called to see if the phone agent could do one better.

She could not: the phone rates were more than double those online.

Next, I asked if there was a reason why their website showed a price, but the moment I clicked "make reservation," it jumped up by $30.

"You can never tell what the final price is going to be just by looking at the price that's listed. That can change for any number of reasons. Right up until you pay," she explained.

"Wow, it's almost like you're playing a game," I said, my tone friendly. "It's like a treasure hunt. Will you or won't you get the price you were quoted?"

"Yes! Exactly! It's more like the lottery. You can try, but you're never sure what the outcome will be."

"Thank you! I was in the mood for a distraction. I guess I'll spend some time on your website clicking submit and waiting to see if I hit the jackpot."

"Good luck!"

Either she didn't get my irony, or I didn't get hers.

And so I paid. The full internet rate, which wasn't half bad.

As for least favorite household chore, suddenly I'm curious. What's yours? Mine: tugging and tucking the fitted sheet around the mattress. Bleh.

Alert: Auto askings looming

My car registration is due today, which means an opportunity for asking is just around the corner: the smog check.

As those following this blog for some time know, my darling 1995 nissan maxima has been on life support for the last year. It comes close so to the brink, and then fights on, thanks to repairs by Mr. A and, for the more complicated stuff, my trusty mechanic, Les.

What that means, smog wise, is that my car just might, might fail the test.

Before living in Boston for seven years, I would have accepted the test result and planned accordingly.

But in Boston, I learned something awesome. The price of a safety inspection? $29.95. The price of a safety inspection pass certificate? Asking for one, and/or a crisp Jackson.

My car has tinted windows, you see, and that's legal in Texas (where I picked it up from my dad). But they were too dark for Massachusetts. So every year, for five years, I asked, begged, and cajoled the safety inspectors to let it slide. And once, someone I know may have offered a generous "tip" for their accommodating services. Because removing the tint would be costly or (if I did it myself, which was more likely) create a hazardous (and nasty looking) zebra print. Also, I knew I was just passing through. Any year in Boston could have been my last. Why go to all that trouble for something as arbitrary as the tint percentage of the Commonwealth's motor vehicle code?

This time around I'm not planning on bribing anyone, but if there's some small hitch, and it's not some crazy safety problem, I will definitely ask for a break.

What all that means, car wise, is that I really am overdue for an upgrade. I know I've been threatening to do this since last fall, but now I mean it. I've stashed some cash. All I need is time. Once I turn in a complete draft of the dissertation I'm going to hit the lots.

And I hope you, gentle reader, will tag along as I delve into the negotiation process and try to get the best deal known to askerdom!

Repair this car for less?

April 27. Day 301.

As anyone following this blog for some time knows, my car has been teetering on the edge of the abyss for about a year now. For a while, the engine was shutting down randomly while I was driving, then the tachometer started jumping up and down erratically. Now it still routinely won't start. And, I'm sad to report, there have been leaks.

Poor little thing. Poor little pearly white 1995 Nissan Maxima GXE with tan interior, moon roof, moody CD player, a single hubcap left and enough dents and scratches to fill a rap album.

We go way back -- bought it in 2003 from my dad, drove from Texas to Boston, Boston to San Diego, San Diego to Boston, Boston to Seattle, Seattle to San Diego. And countless Boston-New Jersey round trips, back in the days when Mr. A and I were doing the alternating weekends long distance thing.

Oh, the memories. There was the Chapel Drive of 2007, when as maid of honor I drove my friend E (of ET and the recent Paris dinner) to her wedding, serenading her with "Goin' to the Chapel!" by the Dixie Cups.

There was the Great Deluge of 2005, when the moon roof stopped closing and it rained inside, leaving everything damp and fungal for months.

There was the Alternator Enviro-Debacle of 2004, when the faulty alternator caused me to keep the car idling for half an hour at a time, locked but with the keys in the ignition, just so I could do my Christmas shopping. Just awful.

And the Last Gas-p of 2007, when I almost ran out of gas in Montana but made it to the station thanks to a really long, smooth slope.

And then there was the Boston Massacre That Wasn't, when a police officer pulled me over at the end of a 3,000 mile road trip and towed my car, which was holding my life's possessions, leaving me alone and rideless at 3 a.m. on a deserted turnpike. For speeding. When I begged him to have mercy, he snapped I should be grateful he wasn't putting me in jail. Jail?? Jail!!!! I could have killed him, but there was no room in the trunk to stuff his body and I was not about to sacrifice my shoe collection for a mere crime of passion.

Somehow, every time I've been ready to write off my car this year -- only because a repair would be too expensive to be worth it -- for some reason it has started working again. Usually that reason has involved Mr. A, who keeps replacing parts and using his diagnostic prowess to figure out the cheapest way to fix it.

Well, in the latest round it turns out the radiator needed to be replaced, and that's not a do it yourself kind of job. The garage that confirmed Mr. A's suspicions wanted to charge $440.

Normally, years ago, I would have paid up. Because I used to be a trusting little lass. If someone recommended a garage, and if the car was already there for the diagnosis, that was that. It wasn't laziness, it was just ignorance. I didn't know there is a different way. The Daily Asker way.

Well, hit the accellerator and welcome to 2009.

I posted a note on Craigslist, explaining I needed a new radiator and thermostat and invited mechanics to beat the price. I also called a bunch of garages and tried to get them to lower their prices by having them beat the previous lowest price.

But when I called Thao's auto repair, I realized my efforts had been in vain.

"I can do it for $295."

"For parts and labor?"

"Yeah."

"For thermostat, radiator and new coolant?"

"Yeah."

"And what's your turnaround time?"

"A couple of hours."

Now, I don't need to ask just to ask. Because I recognize there's something even better than a negotiated discount. And that's a great value.

"See you tomorrow!"

Gained: $145. And gave my car a new lease on life. Again.

(Pictured: Pics from Boston to Seattle roadtrip in 2007, snapped in Upstate NY, the Badlands National Park, and a parking lot in Anytown.)

How all those parking fines finally paid off.

January 6. Day 190.

There are few domains in which I proclaim expertise. Grad school has only stressed how little I know -- and how much I need to stress out. The school of life has brought no greater mastery of any line of thought.

But I do profess to know my Three P's: procrastination, parking tickets, and praspberries.

Let's leave the first and third for later, shall we, and zoom in on number two.

While living in Boston for six years, I amassed a fanciful collection of parking tickets, most of which I saved and put in a file labeled "Fuck you too." These include your routine expired meters, street sweeping, snow emergency, permit only, feeding the meter, and the more exotic specimens: valet parking only, handicapped ramp (only by 2 inches!!), reparking on the same block after a meter expired, and my personal favorite -- parking facing the wrong direction.

Believe me, it was no small task to collect such a variety of offenses.

And so, in hopes of saving you the hundreds or perhaps thousand dollars in fines I paid, I encourage you to apply these methods as needed. Consider them as part of the revolt against a system that forces drivers into coffer-filling obedience.

We will not be jerks and double park or block someone's driveway. But nor will we tolerate this subjugation another day, hour or minute!! Go forth and park in peace, my brothers and sisters!

0. If you'll be parking somewhere frequently, get to know the area's parking vibe. Some streets are doomed, others seem scary (i.e. heavily trafficked) but rarely encounter a meter maid. On some, no one comes by before noon despite the signs. Others, 3 a.m. checks are routine.

1. Begging and/or kissing up: do it. I have gotten out of lots of tickets on the nick of time by running up to the meter maid with a smile. You don't need to flirt or have long hair and stilettos to pull this off. Just... enough desperation.

2. Leave a note. For a while, I had a paper in the back seat that read, in all caps sharpie, "PLEASE HAVE MERCY! BE BACK SOON!!" It was ready to go for quick meter stops if I was out of quarters and in "Private Parking/Tow Zone" areas. I used it unobtrusively -- in an empty residential lot during business hours, or an empty bank lot on a weeknight, and never for too long.

3. If you do get a fine, check the ticket meticulously. If a number is recorded incorrectly or something is unreadable or missing, the court should declare it invalid.

4. Appeal, appeal, appeal. I got to be a familiar face at Boston city hall. Why not? The ticket cost more than what I earn in an hour, and there are plenty of lunch spots nearby to celebrate.

5. If you get more than one ticket at once, you never simply PAY. Bring two at a time and negotiate. I think I saved $100 or $200 bucks that way, in pre-asker askings. BUT: Don't bring more than two tickets, since the clerk can probably only let you off the hook for one without seeming like a softie.

6. And for the record, since records are so important, act deferential and contrite, even if you and the clerk both know it's a bunch of bullshit to be charged $40 for being a minute late. At least, that seems to work for me.

Today I was in downtown San Diego for a meeting with someone, and there was no way I'd be able to come out and feed the meter. So I resorted to Methods 1 and 2, with a note secured behind a windshield wiper.

"Dear Parking Agent,

If possible...
Please have mercy!
My meeting is done at 1 and I will move the car immediately!!

Have a great day,

apologies,

La Roxy
(civic driver)"

The meter had expired for an hour and 15 minutes, and no ticket! No clue if it was the note or luck, but given my usual misfortune, I want to hope it was the note...

Gained: a $40 reprieve, after paying many multiples of that.

RIP, Maxima! And, today's "vocal" request

November 6. Day 129.

Great news! My car has died. It didn't start two times in a row, I called a bunch of mechanics who said it will probably be expensive to fix, so I'm planning my exit strategy. I could fix part of the problems and sell as is, or trade it in... we'll see.

Why is that great? Because now I finally have the carrot I need to finish this chapter! I won't buy a car, or even research buying a car, until I'm done with this step. Sad that I need to abuse myself like this -- but, whatever it takes to get this chapter finished!

And that brings me to my first big ticket negotiation. A used car!! I'm very curious to see how much I can bring the price down. Maybe I'll try different approaches with different sellers. It will be kind of a game, actually. If anyone has any strategies at all, or anecdotes, I'd love to hear them.

As for asking, I'll be out and about today, so stay tuned!

UPDATE: I hope today's request will not fall on deaf ears.

I listened all to my accumulated phone messages yesterday, which included: one person calling twice to say exactly the same thing, someone whose voice kept cutting in and out for quite a while, someone who accidentally called and left the phone going for a few minutes, a few phone calls on behalf of other people so we could all coordinate something (so much faster on email, no?), and a handful of remarks ("It's me! catch you later!") that are shorter than the time it takes to access them and would convey the same thing as a "missed call" on my cell phone (minus the voice, the human touch, but I'm not that sentimental. Not with deadlines looming.)

Of course, there were many voices I was happy to hear -- from friends, family, business associates -- so I'm not against the system. Just, inefficient use thereof.

I'm also prone to leaving rambling messages, especially to my long distance friends. I guess I really do see those as vocal mails -- small dispatches with an interesting update, a question about we can plan to see each other, a wish for a nice weekend, a concern about the dissertation, an idea for a fun trip together, topped off by an apology for rambling for so long.

But maybe they're checking that message in traffic. In line at the bank. When they're stressed. Maybe they need to wait for me to finish before they can advance to the next message, the important one they were waiting for.

This approach, from The Art of Manliness, is about the worst I can imagine. The write-up itself mimics the anti-ideal voicemail: a few relevant nuggets buried between miles of chatter, and far too many steps to be worth the listener's while. Sounds like a recipe for turdukken, not a business call!

State your name first. You would think this would be so basic that it shouldn’t even be mentioned. However, I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten voicemails where people go on and on and I don’t even know who’s talking to me until the very end. Pretty annoying.

State your number right after your name. Many people wait until the very end of the message to state their number. This will irritate the receiver of your message because if he doesn’t get it down, he then has to sit through the whole damn message again to hear it repeated.

Repeat your phone number twice. People seem to forget that the receiver of their message has to write the number as you say it. Don’t rush through it. Even when you say it slowly, it’s hard to get down the first time. So repeat it again, so they can check to be sure they got it down right.

State the purpose of your call. In as few words as possible, state why you’re calling. Is it in regards to an interview appointment? Are you following up on a previous meeting?

Find some common ground. If you’re cold calling someone, your voicemail is your 30 second chance to make a connection and leave a good impression. One of the best ways to make a connection in that short amount of time is mentioning a mutual acquaintance. You could also mention a shared affiliation with an organization.

Be brief. Don’t make your listener resent you for leaving a 5 minute long message. People are busy. Listening to 5 minute phone messages is not on the top of their priorities and wastes their time. Many callers seem to think they are the only person in the world leaving a voicemail for a particular person. Yet a dozen other people feel the same way and a man ends up holding the phone to his ear for an hour.

Leave a specific request. What do you want your listener to do? Sure, you want them to call you back, but why? To answer a question? To set up an appointment? People will appreciate it if you give them specific actions for their call back. That way they’ll know they won’t be wasting a lot of time on the call back trying to figure out what you want.

Consider leaving your e-mail in addition to your phone number. People like choices. Some people like to have conversations on the phone, while others prefer communicating through e-mail. You don’t know what kind of person your listener will be, so leave the option on the table. For many, e-mail correspondence is less threatening and might actually encourage them to reach out to you.

Be Brief. Did I mention be brief? Yeah? Make sure to do it.

I love this approach, courtesy of iMarc:

When a caller talks for 5 minutes then does a John Moschitta [link fixed] impersonation while leaving their callback number it's maddening. If you miss the phone number, you're forced to playback the entire message and try again.

Next time you leave a voicemail, do this:

1. State your name
2. Leave your phone number, talking slower than normal.
3. In one sentence, tell the person why you called.
4. Repeat your name and number.
5. Hang up

So, I'm making a friendly entreaty to my callers.

Old message: "Hi, you've reached La Roxy. Please leave a message and I'll return your call as soon as I can. Thank you."

New message: "Hi! Please leave your brief, efficient, terse, condensed, concise, succinct, diminutive, pithy, breviloquent, lightening quick, necessary and/or relevant message after the beep."

I promise to do the same!

Gained: Time.

Rental car upgrade?

September 10. Day 72.

You're driving up the Maine coastline, about to see one of your closest friends get married. Along Highway 1, there are tons of adorable coastal towns with adorable British names -- Camden, Bath. You stop in Wiscasset for a lobster roll and paw through antique books in one of half a dozen little stores. You cross long, low bridges and crane your neck whenever it's safe, just to get a glimpse of the glistening water dotted with sail boats.

In a Chevy Impala.

Screeech. End of fantasy, right?

However, thanks to this experiment, I asked the Hertz office in Portland for a free upgrade and got... a Mustang!!

I'd heard of people asking about rental car upgrades, but I've never managed to get one. Either I forgot to try, or they were out of stock, or the option wasn't particularly sexy and hence not worth it. But at Hertz I encountered Amy, who told me they have not one but several choices. I stopped her at Mustang.

The bride-to-be, who also happens to be a blogger, offered this pearl today: When you start blogging, your life shapes the blog. Once you're committed, the blog shapes you life.

Thanks for the wise words, radiant P, and so looking forward to tomorrow!!

Gained: One hot car. Thankz, Hertz!

ps: as for my worries about internet and the like? this rustic cabin heated by fireplace and an elementary furnace tucked at the end of a gnarled path on a remote island has wifi. go figure.

Free car engine diagnosis?

August 20. Day 51.

Today's two askings:

I. I saw a coupon online for a free diagnosis of a "check engine" light. I don't have such a light, but my car has been mysteriously stalling recently. I called to ask if they'd look at it for free, even though it was a more complicated procedure. I added I would be open to fixing it there afterwards, or coming in for future services. The manager agreed, and was nice enough to keep my car all afternoon, run a few tests, drive it around (evidenced by the slightly higher odometer reading and lower gas gauge when I picked it up). The result? They couldn't find anything! The car was perfectly well behaved. I just hope it doesn't stall again tomorrow, when I'm driving my grandma to the doctor.

Gained I: Free exploratory diagnosis, valued around $80 at the other mechanic shops I had asked before finding this coupon.

II. Borders was the only bookstore I found in San Diego with theory books by Walter Benjamin, which I need for the chapter I'm working on. With two of his classics in hand (Illuminations and the second volume of his collected works), I asked the cashier if I could get the online price, which was $2 cheaper. She apologized, but offered this instead: a 20% discount if I was a Border's Rewards member. I happened to be a member, but didn't think to ask for that type of discount -- merely the online price. But asking for the first discount led to the second.

Gained II: $5.

Parable of the Screeching Battery

July 23. Day 23.

This has been an ugly day. Not awful. Not bad. Not depressing. Not frustrating. Not glum. Not humdrum. Just ugly.

Ugly: Waking up to a soft intermittent beeping sound that grew louder and sharper and longer and louder and sharper and louder and louder until it became the only thing I could hear or think about. It turned out to be the safety/hazard beep of an extra jump-starter battery hidden beneath the kitchen sink. I tapped a few buttons. Nothing. With the diabolical determination of a Guantanamo interrogator or a tired toddler, it kept screaming for help, attention, a soundproof trashcan, a lollipop, a severe beating with a hammer, submersion in acid, anything to make it stop -- so I finally dumped it into a trash bag and took off for the nearest certified hazardous waste facility.

Uglier: Driving around for almost an hour, from Radio Shack to AT&T to a defunct Pep Boys, all registered battery recycling centers, only to hear "We can't take that. We only take cell phone batteries." I insisted, but I knew it was a lost cause from the start: What uniformed store manager with a floor full of customers would ever accept a bright yellow, secreting music box from hell?

But then, a glimmer of hope: I realized I couldn't just leave it in a trashcan, not downtown, since it would probably be mistaken for a bomb. Come on. A loud beep coming from an electrical device furtively tossed into a trashcan near by a crazed woman, just steps away from the NBC building or a busy mall? Not risking it. So I drove to the nearest Pep Boys, which was twenty minutes away. In traffic. By now I was starting to internalize the sound. Play with it. Grow with it. If Pep Boys didn't take this screeching fiend off my hands, maybe, in a few months, I could actually stop noticing it. Maybe it would become a sort of white noise that only I could tune out, and I could use the battery to clear a path in crowds. Take it to the busiest beach on weekends and watch as a spot miraculously opened up. Shorten any line. Hmm...

Ugliness again: On the way to Pep Boys, I get yelled at by two women sitting on a bench in front of a liquor store. I had sprayed my windshield and ran the wipers when one of them spat, "Just wash your car." I was tempted to say something, but they looked ready to knife me.

Uglier still: Getting the kiss-kiss from a bloated guy in a blue van when we both pulled up to the same red light. "Hi. Hiiii!!! [mua mua mua]." Fortunately: My trusty Nissan, though filthy, has 200 horses, so I grazed the accelerator and let him kiss my ass.

Ugliest : Finally, finally, a kind and gracious Pep Boys employee agreed to take it. He ever so gingerly took the battery out of the bag, fumbled with a few switches and buttons I had also pressed and MADE THE SCREECHING STOP.

Moral 1: If you really really want help, never stop screaming.
Moral 2: Before you ask others, make sure it's not simpler to help yourself.

Gained: return to the status quo.

Can you be any dumber?

July 18. Day 18.

Two askings, with very different results.

Number one. After moving back to California from Boston, I sent in a Lost Plate affidavit to cancel my registration. A few weeks later, I received a confirmation receipt, mailed to my new address -- but with another woman's name (Rosilyn) and vehicle (Toyota) listed on it. I called the Massachusetts RMV to untangle everything.

First, I explained the situation to the clerk in the Titles division of the RMV and asked her what needed to happen so I could get my own receipt and the other woman got hers. "I can't do anything. If that woman put your address on her form, it's not my problem."

"No. Maybe I'm not explaining myself very clearly. I have never met this woman before. She doesn't know I exist. Her name and paperwork were mistakenly sent to my house. Meanwhile, I never got my receipt. There's no reason for her to put my address on her form."

"But it's her name sent to your address, right?"

"Yes."

"Then the only way that would happen is if she put your address on her form. That's the only explanation."

"Do you mean to tell me that it's more likely that a woman who I've never met before, who doesn't even know my street or house number in a completely different state, magically conjured my address -- or maybe dug around in my trash and somehow got that address--and sent me her receipt, versus the possibility that someone in your office made a mistake and sent her form to my address?"

"Well, clearly, if it's her name and your address, then she put your address on her form."

"But she doesn't know my address. I've never met this woman before. My home is in California. Maybe I'm not being clear. Your office has misread our forms, or sent her receipt to me and vice versa. Can you please sort this out?"

"There's nothing I can do."

"Okay. Thank you very much."

GRRR. I would have slammed the phone shut, but it's a cell.

Second. Extraordinary Desserts, a lovely pastry shop a dangerously short drive away. I was there with my sister and cousin, who discovered, halfway into her white chocolate linzer torte, a minuscule gnat in her water. I said I'll ask for a new water, but she'd managed to fish it out with her teaspoon. "That's okay," she said.

But, as I'd just told her about the blog, she smiled and said, "Of course, please do ask for a new water."

Gained: incontrovertible proof that the Boston DMV is staffed by first class morons; and clean water for my cousin.