I’ve got the bug.

My wife and I recently bought a new MINI Cooper S Countryman (her previous car, Bella, was totaled, thanks to some kid rear-ending us — people, stop texting!) The MINI (my wife dutifully named Penelope — I will never understand her need to name and assign gender) is a really slick piece of machinery.  We chose to custom order it, which took several weeks to arrive on U.S. soil, almost two months actually. During this time, we made many visits to the dealership, sometimes for my car for maintenance, Sasha as my wife calls “her,” others to pester, annoy and prod our sales rep over the MINI–erm, Penelope’s, status, etc.  However, we never made a visit without me drooling over my dream car:

The M3 Coupe.  Or according to my wife: Diana.  This has got to stop.

I digress…

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