I believe that people who use food as a crutch and a coping mechanism, aren't that different from those who use drugs, alcohol and sex to numb themselves. You can just tell by looking at us what our vice is.
Chocolate covered almonds are my kryptonite, blogging is my therapy.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
I am so smrt.
I picked up my new car on May 16th.
50 days ago.
And last night, while walking to my car with friends after catching the fabulous David Gray (Oh my God, I love him so fucking much!) in concert, the following conversation happened:
Fredo: This will be my first time in your new car.
Feather: Are you still loving it?
Me: Oh yes! There are two small things that I miss though. It doesn't get as freeze-your-balls-off cold as my Matrix did, and there isn't a car alarm.
Fredo: That can't be right.
Feather: Are you sure?
Kwesi: Are you really sure?
Me (this is leading to the climax of this story, so pay close attention here): Oh yes! I even lost the car when I parked it at the movies the other night. I was walking around and around in this sweatbox underground parking garage, and had to keep pushing the button that locks the doors, so that the lights would flash and the horn would beep till I could find it!
Kwesi: Maybe you have to push two buttons at the same time to get the alarm to go off.
Fredo: Or push just one of the buttons and hold it for awhile. Have you looked in the instruction manual?
Me: Of course not. I don't do that! That's what boys are for.
Fredo: Those Koreans make good cars. For sure there is an alarm.
Kwesi: There has to be an alarm, Jennifer.
So I (still insisting that there is not an alarm button) take my keys out of my purse.
I'll put an end to this and prove the three of them wrong right now, I'm thinking.
Because obviously, if I have been driving my car for the past 50 days, I would know if there is an alarm on the fob by now.