By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

Our impending wedding has given my fiancée and me a good opportunity to work on a most valuable married-couple skill.

The negotiation handoff.

When a recent transaction with one of our vendors went sour, for example, my future bride decided it would be a good idea for me to take the point on future dealings — unless, of course, I wanted to squander our hard-earned wedding fund on bail money.

She had hired the vendor to make us a set of clay-flower wreaths to place near the wedding altar, giving explicit instructions on the size, shape and color of the pieces she wanted. What we got back was — how shall I say this? — disappointing.

"It sucks!" she said, give or take a modifier.

She called the vendor to see if she couldn't do a little more on work on the piece to bring it to within, oh, a football field of what we agreed on.

The chat went well — if by "well" you mean riotously awry. The call ended with my fiancée fuming and our vendor screaming, "Don't ever call me again!"

And so we did the handoff. That afternoon, I called the vendor and turned on the old journalist charm.

The call went exactly as I had hoped — if what I had hoped was for her to end the call by screaming, "Stop talking to me! I'm on the road! I'm going to crash! Do you want me to die?"

Notice, she didn't say not to ever call her again.

Progress! The system works! (At least we hope it will when we take her to court.)

The handoff has worked even better for us in the past.

When I was shopping for a truck several years ago, I came very, very close to leaping over the desk and throttling the sleazy sales manager who, after a half-hour of signing papers, had tried to sneak an extra $1,000 onto the final tab.

In time-honored Japanese rage-man tradition, I went ballistic. Papers went flying. I called the guy things you wouldn't even see written on a bathroom wall. I was halfway through slandering the guy's family, pets and country before the dearest dragged me outside.

Handoff.

After a lengthy renegotiation — we'd essentially hijacked the guy on the night of his company Christmas party — my fiancée emerged with a deal Red Auerbach would have applauded.

The handoff works, in part, because, while my fiancée and I are both stubborn as camels, we are also both prone to overloading the outrage circuits and sputtering to a sulky stop long before accord can be reached with our nemeses. The handoff allows for a change of tack: Sipowicz out, Kelly in. It's like bringing in a fresh dealer.

The handoff also forces us to override our natural inclinations once in a while. My fiancée will conjure fireballs and lightning if you cut her off near an on-ramp, but when it's her turn to play good cop, she's smoother than single malt.

Me, I'd sooner wrestle dingoes than send back a slice of burnt toast at a diner. But once the tag is made, look out: I'm Bill Romanowski on Red Bull and whole grains.

There are variations, too. The fictitious-blame handoff is a great escape hatch.

As in, "Hey, if it were up to me, that lovely macrame dreamcatcher you gave us would be hanging in the living room. But you know Michael. Such a snob."

Or, "Dang, wish I could help you guys move today but, um, you know the old ball-and-chain. Clang, clang."

Hmm. You know, I probably shouldn't have blabbed about all our little ploys.

Don't get any funny ideas, though, or I'll sic my fiancée on you.

Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com or (808) 535-2461.