Up With Your Rules

This morning, everyone in the tiny cul de sac by the Raritan River believes that I am a hand-painted moron. I suppose I am. I mean, you absolutely haven't lived until you've ducked out for a bottle of wine and locked your keys into your motor vehicle with the engine running right in front of your apartment, and all you can say is, "How is that even possible?" There's also this:

Tata: Are you going to break into my car?
Tow Truck Dude: No.

He reaches into a tool box and grabs a hammer.

Tata: I am not using that on my JerseyChickMobile.
TTD: Well, I don't want to break your windows!
Tata: Then DON'T, crazy man.

To be fair, the Tow Truck Dude would probably say you hadn't lived until you've driven the wrong way around a roundabout to be greeted by an ice-scraper wielding little old lady with a ladder over one shoulder, blurting out hot ones like, "This isn't even the FUNNIEST problem I've had all day," and "If you'd arrived ten minutes later, my legs would've been flailing out that living room window."