"Okay, seriously. What kind of car would you like when your van dies?"
I can't think of a conversation I'd like to have less than "the car" conversation. "I don't care." I say unhelpfully.
"C'mon! Instead of a mini-van this time, would you like a sedan? Or may-be by then, you could have a two door coupe."
"Mary! Don't you have any preferences?"
"I guess another mini-van."
"But may-be by then you won't need a mini-van."
"Thanks. I always like to contemplate when my parent job is over." Now the conversation is not only boring, it's turned depressing.
"Alright, let's just say you seem to want a roomy car. I guess a coupe is out. But now may-be you could get that 64 Mustang you've always wanted."
"I want a '68 Camaro now."
"But that's a Chevy!" he protests. Now he is starting to not like the way this conversation is going.
"So it has to be a Ford then?" I ask archly.
"Yes." He is now as stubborn about the make of car as I am about not wanting a car.