drama . . .

. . . with my car. Today. At a strip mall. Couldn't get in. Door lock sticks. Door lock is automatic, only responds to the key if key is inserted and twisted the right way. Key lock is a fickle lover.

Me (in my head): Oh my God, no.
Me (out loud): Fuck!
Me (in my head): I hate this car, I really, really, really hate this car.

My passenger door unlocks. [This is a new occurrence that only started happening when the driver's side door stopped working. But why? I don't care about my passengers. If there is a fire in the car you can bet your ass I'm getting myself out. ]

I decide not to look around to whomever could be witnessing my struggle with the lock. Crawl in through passenger side, over huge lumpy armrest (which does move, but I forget). Furiously poke button from inside of door. Still won't budge. Effectively trapped.

Still need to drive to store. Store is in same parking lot. Drive over, with nonchalance. Surely, during the ten seconds it takes to make it to Harry T's my door will miraculously work again.

I park, shut off engine. Bush button. It doesn't work. Am officially trapped. Parking lot is rather busy, and I feel expected to make a normal exit from my car. Frantically turn to cell phone, randomly look through numbers. No one to call. Revert to pretending I am listening to messages (ah, how low we sink) and trying to ignore the fact that the car is now heating up and I am about to die in a parking lot full of people because I am too prideful to crawl out the passenger side and would prefer to look as though I know exactly what I am doing and in what temperature I am doing it in.

Look hatefully at door. Push button again. It unlocks.