If Mr. Philately and I ever get divorced, I suspect it will occur as a result of buying a car. We can work together, we can play together, we can grieve together, we can celebrate together, but we cannot buy a car together. At best, we buy the car separately with the money coming from a joint account.

Luckily, neither of us are people likely to rush into buying a car. The old Corolla was 14 years old and at approximately 150,000 miles before we decided that it had to go before we lost a child out the rust on the bottom of the car. The Reliant station wagon, which we accurately dubbed �The Unreliable,� went long before we had planned but, despite its short life with our family, long after it should have. If our state�s lemon law had been in force then, that car would have qualified and then some.

But here we sit with our aging van, wondering if we are getting close to having to put the old workhorse out of its misery. Either the poor dear is balding or it has the heartbreak of cariasis. The kids recognize it by the paint it doesn�t have. If they shoot horses with broken legs, surely we should consider doing the same for a van with a broken left axle and shift cable, especially as the poor thing is getting creaky enough in the joints that it needed ball bearings replaced just a month or two ago.

It would have been nice to pay off the new Corolla before buying a new car but it may not be in the cards. And so, Mr. Philately and I are off and running on the mental exercise known as the car wrestling preliminary events.

He wants a Camry and a sun roof. He believes in Toyotas and he believes that I should be grateful he is not seeking a convertible. On the Toyota, despite my Detroit upbringing, I recognize that our most faithful cars have been Toyotas. On the sun roof, however, we have a problem---the first of many in all likelihood. We live in Wisconsin, for goodness sake. It�s bad enough that most years we have to be on top of a lot of snow. I don�t want to be under the snow. I don�t want to look up and see the snow. I don�t want a roof that could leak. (Building a garage would help avoid some of these problems but that�s another discussion for another day.)

He hasn�t told me what color our car should be yet but I already know. He prefers it be beige. In a pinch, any earth-tone will do. The man loves any color as long as it�s brown or some variety of brown---and no, it doesn�t sway me when he points out that he likes my brown eyes too.

You do realize, of course, that ever since The Unreliable, we have bought used cars, don�t you? You do realize that finding used cars to exact specifications is a trickier prospect than buying a new one to specification. You also realize, of course, who will do the legwork when it comes to finding this dream car? Car shopping really would be more fun if I got to play the role of the guy who says, �No, not that one.� It�s a short line. I could memorize it. I could say it with feeling.

We won�t even discuss the horror of negotiation. Somehow, I�ve become the designated negotiator but I�m the designated negotiator who steps up to the plate with so many directions from the coach that, after planting my feet in the proper position and getting my stance just so, I�m not sure I�ll remember how to swing that deal. If I whip that baby out to right field, I�ll stand there wondering if it would have been a home run if only I�d cranked it out a little lower and to the left.

Mr. Philately and I have a deal: whoever asks for a divorce must take the children. By the time all this is over, that deal may sound okay to me---as long as he doesn�t get the new car.

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