What do you do when everything’s a mess and clutter is a huge challenge and the house is falling into disrepair and the kids have all drafted resolutions of war against one another? Well, you ignore the hell out of the house, move all of your problems into a much smaller, fumier space and then take that shit on the road.
Makes total sense. And that’s exactly what we’ve been attempting to do for months now. The fact that we have failed to completely self-destruct isn’t for the lack of trying.
We’ve spent hours perusing the online classified offerings for the perfect RV. Wearing our eyes into saline-flavored raisins looking through photo galleries of Class A’s and Class C’s. Because we will be good and DAMNED before we consider getting a pull trailer. We want something that will break down leaving us homeless and stranded all at once.
There have been a few close calls, but so far all we’ve done is stress and insult RV sellers by giving them ridiculously low offers.
The first one we put an offer on was this old Airstream Argosy in Tennessee. By old, I mean dangerous. It was a vehicle built with all the efficiencies and technological advancements available in 1975. And we wanted nothing more than to put our children inside it and then crank it up to 80MPH.
It had a retro look that was simply irresistible to Jill. The inside was all avocado and nicotine-stained from cigarettes that killed their smokers long ago. She was in love with this depression incubator before we found out that it was featured in a horror movie, wonderfully titled Motor Home Massacre. No shit.
That clinched it. The guy was asking $10,500 for this B-movie prop and Jill immediately offered him $6,000 sight unseen. And he immediately accepted. D’oh. We then had to make ourselves look like sane adults and emailed him a big contingency—we told him we needed an inspection. We found a guy in Tennessee to allow us to pay him $100 so he could pretend to care and look this relic over. I’ll spare you Seacrest-style suspense: he was able to start the RV. That meant we would be able to drive it to the scrapyard instead of having to get it towed.
We adjusted our offer to $2,500. That was months ago and we still haven’t heard back. We figure they’re talking it over with their accountants.
While we waited for the “We’ll take your offer!” email, we decided it wouldn’t hurt to keep looking. We found a Class C for sale in our zip code. A Class C wasn’t exactly what we were looking for, but we had money we couldn’t afford to spend just waiting to be spent on something.
This time, being so close, we were able to load up the kids, drive to their house, and actually walk the thing ourselves. The kids loved it. I had no idea what I was inspecting. Was the defibrillator fully operational? Would the coccyx hold up? What about the spanx?
I drove it. It was the most white-knuckle driving I’ve ever done at 20 mph. To give us the full effect of what would happen on a real road trip, the kids argued. They were team players that day.
The next week, we made them take it in for their inspection. Of course we paid. But it ruined a morning for them. We had to get them ready for our offer. They were asking $8,600. And because we genuinely like these folks, we cut that price almost in half and offered $4,500.
That was weeks ago. We’re still waiting to hear back.