beautiful beamer

If I ever complain about my life ever ever again, please feel free to fill my comment box with You’re-A-Spoiled-Brat comments (go easy on me, Tanya). After today, it is only fair that I retract all whiny posts and spend the rest of my blogging days praising the Good Lord for letting me live a life filled with beautiful German houses and convertible BMW’s.

Yes, we are that spoiled.

So Jason bought himself a little red Beamer when we got over here for a few thousand dollars. It was a nice car, a cute car, a “Hi I’m a single girl who likes to paint my nails red” car. It just didn’t fit him. I finally suggested that he consider getting something a little more professional that reflected things like his manliness and not his closet metrosexual tendencies (he’s a total fashionista, don’t let the gun fool you). He agreed.

Last week he came home with great news. An agent in his office was selling a little old Very Ugly beater for $700, low mileage and gets 40 MPH. It was too good of a deal, he had to get it. Think of all the money we’ll save! (Dave Ramsey has no style.) 48 hours later he was driving it home and asking me if I wanted to ride in it. Unfortunately I came down with a case of Ickycar syndrome and haven’t been able to go near it ever since.

He was still interested in getting a more professional car for himself so last weekend we drove out to look at another older BMW, something with leather and AC and power windows.

Personally, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time. Why would I approve buying him a nice car when he’s going to leave it in the garage and drive the fuel efficient purple people eater to work everyday instead? I told him that very thing just about the time we pulled up to test drive the new car.

I looked at it parked on the curb. It was a fine car, no doubt. But sitting behind that fine little car, tucked up in the driveway all sneaky like, was a beautiful black BMW. It was circa 1997, impeccably cared for and calling out to me like a long-lost pair of stilettos.

And my husband didn’t even ask to test drive it.

“Well,” he said on the way home, after testing out the other vehicle, “What do you think about the car?”

“I think you need to buy the convertible.”

Silence.

“Wait, but I didn’t even drive the convertible,” he said, looking around to see if this was, in fact, some kind of Twilight Zone and quickly checking both his mirrors for the hidden camera.

“No,” I said, “But you need to buy it. That way you can drive the ugly car in the winter and feel good about the purchase, then drive the convertible in the summer to make you happy.” Also the man looks pretty darn fine in a convertible.

I might be a mean old witch who doesn’t let my boy own a motorcycle, but you can’t tell me that I don’t know how to make him happy. I think this is a nice meeting ground.

And just for the record, I think the convertible and I are soul sisters. She and I have way too much fun opening it up on the autoban. Who says mommy’s don’t get to have any fun?

(And yes, I will post pictures of all our European cars as soon as I can get my act together. Meeting the movers first thing in the morning, yay!!!)