Having one of my favorite evenings, with great friends, lots of yummy food and good wine, swapping stories about life, work, and kids. At some point, the conversation turned to cars, specifically the little 1974 Mercedes convertible that Kenny bought me for my birthday a few years back. (The 450SL is my favorite classic car of all time, 1974 is the year we graduated from high school together, and he chose the color to match my hair.) I love this man, and I SERIOUSLY love this car!
About halfway through the conversation (and our third bottle of wine), I mentioned that one of my favorite features was the gorgeous dashboard that lights up like a 747 control panel every time I start the car, complete with blinking and flashing, multicolored dash icons that I assumed were to let you know everything is on and working.
Kenny immediately began that asthmatic-type wheezing he gets when I tell most of my stories, and he dropped his fork, tearing out into the garage at full speed, yelling something about “female drivers” and “blonde hair.” Apparently, those lights are n-e-v-e-r supposed to be on.
Well, they could have put THAT in the manual…