“Figaro?  It’s us.  So, we’re trying to start the car.  And we can’t.”
“Is this the blonde or the brunette?”
“Um, both?”
“Which one’s behind the wheel?”
“The brunette.”
“Sigh…”
-Tink and Lt. Figaro

Snippet of a phone conversation that actually took place when Tink and I had to go pick up uniforms from the laundry.  Tink (the blonde) was riding shotgun since Maybe Driver, still swimming somewhere above her pelvis, gets in the way of her using a steering wheel.  We’re both smart and resourceful…why was starting a car escaping us? 

Turns out that this particular piece of equipment only turns on when the steering wheel is at a particular angle, after you’ve done the required dance through the cabalistic circle to conjure the car gods.  No one told us!  By the time we got back this had made it’s way through the office.

I had my revenge.  Being 4’11” I have to move the seat as far up and forward as it will go (or else have an Indiana Jones moment and strap bricks to my shoes).  Lt. Figaro, who is well over a hundred pounds heavier and more than a foot taller than me, called me moments after he left for the gym with an indignant growl of, “I am surrounded by tiny women!  Took me ten minutes to fix my seat and mirrors!”  Nyah nyah!