Why Was This Night Like No Other?
I was going to rant about Philly's sick obsession with Hipsterism today, but alas, no. Instead we will talk about the three hours I spent in the Ikea parking lot this evening. Phone-less. With a car that refused to go into Drive.
Faithful readers will faithfully remember how much I love my car. And how much my car loves me, obviously, to leave me stranded in parking lots in South Philly at dusk as bait for rapists and crazies. Ha.
I went to Ikea to get an easel for the shabby chic mirror I picked up earlier at Linens N Things to write the espresso drinks on a la Brasserie style because my $3k espresso machine is entirely invisible behind a pole in my shop and no one knows I'm shilling $4 cafe lattes and have two (two!) experienced uber competent baristas who can make you the driest/foamiest/wettiest/double Red Eyed espresso skim au lait you've ever seen in your life dammit. Anyway, the stupid fucking safety feature on the gear shift decides not to go into drive. Fucker is just stuck. Car starts fine, but it won't go anywhere. Oh yeah, and on the way over some woman stops me at a light to tell me all of my brake lights are out. All of them.
Grrreeat. No more effortless cruisin' with The Bats. Must pay more attention now so I don't get rearended because I'm not so sure the other guy's insurance would cover me if my fuckin brake lights aren't functioning.
Oh yeah, did I mention that the car just came back from the shop last week with a whole new set of brakes? God damn, this is sounding really familiar.
And of course, today I've forgotten my fuckin phone which means I must a) dig up enough change to make a few phone calls b) at the pay phone that's where-is-it-anyway?
Advantage to being stranded in the Ikea parking lot while I wait for 2 hours for AAA: Chick-Fil-A. I was so discombulated I scarfed down my Cool Chicken Caesar Wrap, thinking to myself the entire time 'Wow, this fucker seems really fuckin healthy!' until I realize the super maxi-pad sized tube of Caesar dressing in the bottom of the bag that I failed to utilize.
AAA Tow Guy: "Jettas are my most popular car."
(Am I babbling? Because I feel like I'm babbling. Maybe ranting is a better word. My fingers are flying and the wine is disappearing. I probably won't even spellcheck this fucker when I'm done because I don't want the fuckin spellchecker to ask me over and over again what the word 'fucker' means.)
OK. I'll stop now. You get the drift. But hear this Miss Jetta: You Are Dead To Me. C'est Fini. We're finished, Sister. There's only room for one sassy, incorrigble, stubborn chickadee here. Sayonara, baby.