One of my friends came into my office after lunch yesterday and said, "I have a blond story for you." I said, "Hit me."
My friend (the blond in question) went to Circuit City at lunch to have some work done on the satellite radio she had installed in her car. The Circuit City guy explained her options and she told him she would think about it and would bring the car back another time after she decided what she wanted to do.
She walked back to her car, opened the door, threw in her purse, sat down and closed the car door. Oddly enough, however, the steering wheel was gone. She looked at the empty dash in front of her for a split second, then slowly turned her head to the left. She had gotten into her car on the passenger side instead of the driver's side.
She now had two options. She could either climb clumsily and very unladylike over the console between the seats or she could swallow what little pride she had left, exit the car and walk around to the driver's side and leave Circuit City in shame. She decided the humiliation of leaving the car and walking around to the driver's side would be better than the embarrassment of trying to climb all elbows and assholes across the console.
She said she got out of the car, kept her head down, walked around the car, got in and drove away. She never looked back toward the store where she was certain a crowd of store employees had surely gathered to watch her sort out her dilemma.
I think she should have gotten out of the car, looked back at whoever was watching and, in a very British accent, said, "Damn American cars."