Saturday, August 16, 2008
Imagine That This Is My Car.
You'll have to imagine it covered in bird poop and without those odd headlights, but it's a close approximation. My car went into the shop last week for an oil change and came out with a brand new set of front brakes. Six hundred bucks, but she's worth it. She's my little donkey and she's only nine years old.
This morning I tried to get into my little donkey and I was rebuffed. The remote on my key fob didn't seem to be working. I tried the spare. Uh uh. "No problem", I thought, "I'll just use the valet key to open the door." I opened it up, inserted the key fob into the ignition and nothing happened. It wouldn't even turn! (Well, when I say that nothing happened, I meant that the car didn't start. Helpfully, the car alarm did start! It must have thought someone was trying to steal it, poor thing.)
Anyway, here I sit, awaiting the man from Yorktown Auto to come and slip my car the mechanical equivalent of a Xanax. (I did finally manage to stop it from screaming. That was after 20 minutes of frantically thumbing through the owners manual while flop sweat ran into my eyes as I imagined the neighbors calling the police department on me.)
I was supposed to be having a cheese and mushroom omelette right about now. I could have really gone for that omelette too. With rye toast and orange juice.
Cherry Bomb's going to KILL me.