|Swimsuit: Top, L*Space. Bottoms, Victoria's Secret.|
The very first full day of my Dad and brother's trip, we took off for Venice Beach
(because what better way to give people a crazy impression
of California than to visit blocks full of crazy?).
We met some...characters...and I found one hundred great artsy things that I need to
buy for my new office, but the craziest thing that happened on our trip didn't actually
transpire at Venice Beach, but a few blocks away. In our parking spot.
By now, we all know that my car deserves no praise.
What Pala truly deserves is to be punched directly in the windshield
(but that would probably hurt my fist more than it would hurt her).
When we arrived at the beach, I pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car.
Upon closer inspection, we determined I should really pull up a bit further
(my parking skills needing work? You must be kidding).
Except that the car wouldn't start. Not even after several tries.
Fabulous, I thought. Just fabulous.
We left her there and went off to tour the boardwalk, and by some miracle she started
when we were ready to leave. And she didn't have a problem for the remainder of their trip,
so that's a good thing, at least. But I have no illusions about Pala's trustworthiness anymore.
I'm just waiting for her to leave me stranded, probably somewhere I least want to be.