Traumatic

   The BF and I went for a crazy date last night. It consisted of rushing to the Fort for dinner. Then rushing to the mall to buy him a winter coat so he'll be nice and toasty in Germany. Then rushing back to school because the little sister had a solo in the choir concert. Then rushing to Huntington to catch a late movie. 

   The traumatic part took place after the movie. I had volunteered to drive so we walked out to my little black Sebring, I click the button and get in. He stands at his door and knocks on the window, sometimes I forget to hit the button twice so his door doesn't unlock so I hit the unlock button in the car. He continues to knock. So I reach through and unlock it. Still knocking, and now holding some piece of plastic in his hand gesturing wildly. "Look at this!" he yells through the window. I sigh resignedly and remove myself from the car. "Look at this!" 

"What is it?"

"It's the handle!"

"WHAT??" 

My poor car. She was endearingly named Stella earlier this year because some friends and I decided that she was trying to get her grove back. No no, Stella, you're going the wrong way. You are not getting your groove back, not at all.