Well, in case you were wondering what a car bra is, here's what it means...
car bra or auto bra (noun) - a carbon-based cover that fits over the front bumper of a car, absorbing the microwaves used in police radar equipment to minimize the risk of detection for the speeding motorist.
But my story of car bra totally brings a different meaning...
Today saw me sending small-Ty's car to the service center. I was totally prepared for the trip. I braced myself with a book I just bought, assignment for tomorrow's presentation and a laptop. I was determined to wait at the center for the car to be ready and at the same time be as productive as possible.
The car was registered in for servicing at 2 p.m. and was scheduled to be completed at 4. I had a couple of hours to kill so I alternated my activities with reading the book and doing my assignment every half an hourly. At quarter to 4, the service personnel came to me in person with the car key and the receipt, an eager look on his face, telling me that the car is ready. It was a pretty strange episode if you ask me, because they would normally announce the car number over the PA system and I would have to collect the key from the counter. This was totally out-of-norm, but I was super pleased with the service, and I am no bitch to complain about good service. So, I just took the key, said the sweetest thank you and collected small-Ty's car.
Less than 20 minutes later, I pulled up in front of the house and began to collect my personal effects from the front passenger's seat. Just to make sure I did not miss anything, I decided to check the back seat as well. But the instance I turned my head back to look at the rear seat, I can't help laughing my head off. And suddenly, it all seems clear to me why the service personnel were being unusually nice. There on the rear seat of the car were a crumpled T-shirt, a pair of rolled-up, super skimpy cycling short and a pair of brassiere! Ooh-la-la! This, was the main reason, and it was green! And that green thing just made me a victim of circumstances. Tsk, tsk!
In case you were wondering to whom those things belongs to, they were definitely not mine. And if this is so, and the car I sent for servicing belongs to small-Ty, I shall leave y'all to do the math. The only thing I know is that I am never going back to that service center. Period.
Even if it was partly my fault for not checking the backseats before registering the car for the service job.