Several decades past, we were looking for a cheap second car when the trophy wife spotted a retirement age Mercedes station wagon.  The sticker price rocked me, but I could tell by the look in her eyes this deal was done.  I rehearsed saying “no” before we met with the highly polished sales staff, but being outnumbered five to one, I caved.  Years later, while visiting the beaches of Mexico, I witnessed similar strong-arm sales techniques by condo time-share sharks and my Mercedes experience taught me to never be lured into any sales meeting in a room with only one door and no windows.  In that respect, the Mercedes high pressure sales pitch taught me a valuable lesson. 

During our first winter of Mercedes ownership I learned to hate that car.  It was a cold-blooded diesel and when the temperature dropped below zero starting it required jumper cables and an hour of pre-heating with a propane weed burner.  There is a very fine line dividing the dimensions between just enough heat to start the engine and lighting it on fire; a threshold I crossed one dark, cold, February morning.  When the grease on the block burst into flames I debated whether to put out the fire or pour gas on it.  Succumbing to the harsh reality of returning to a one-car family, I extinguished the flames.  You might think it not possible to beat the fire into submission using jumper cables, but you can if you are frustrated enough.  I hated that car. 

Four years later, even the trophy wife tired of using jumper cables every morning and set her sights on a used, Ford minivan.  I was all over swapping cars, but the local dealer not so much, so they knocked one thousand dollars off the minivan sticker if I would just keep the Mercedes.  Thinking I was making out like a bandit, I agreed, bought the minivan, stuck a For-Sale sign in the Mercedes and parked in front of my vet clinic.  Days turned to weeks to months and I learned there was no market for blue, Mercedes station wagons, but then along came Bruce.  He had driven past the car so much he felt sorry for it and had visions of turning it into his parts car.  Nothing beams success quite like a sugar beet farmer motoring into the farm implement dealer in a Mercedes.  I warned him the old girl was a little cold blooded on winter mornings, but Bruce assured me he had a magical fuel additive, so my soft-sell approach sealed the deal.  I had mixed emotions watching the Mercedes tail lights disappear over the horizon because Bruce was my friend, but I hated that car.  This brings me to my point.