"Oh poop! It's dark, and everything's all weird and blurry. What are all these signs doing there! Oh no, scary detour! Those aren't taillights of other cars are they!?"
See, now this is why women weren't even people until 1875 — look at 'em; they can't even drive to the goddamn airport without falling to pieces. It's a good thing I just flew home from my important business meeting, where I also finger-banged a cocktail waitress in the coat closet at the Denver Hilton, just in time to stave off this one's goddamn nervous breakdown. Thanks honey, I'll take it from here. You go back to your Barbara Cartland novel.
"When a woman's at the wheel, Polyglas means more than mileage." Wow.