mandolin | So, got some beachfront property in Iowa to sell me, Bridget?

To preface this, let me say that I had a lovely evening at my aunt's PartyLite party (more of an excuse to see her and my Grandma and my other aunt and my cousin's wife), and the following incident did not set the tone for the evening.

I pulled into my parking space at around quarter to eleven, illuminating what looked like a floating misshapen marshmallow in my headlights. On closer inspection, it was revealed to be Bridget, pacing the sidewalk in a big white coat. Oh, joy.

Sure enough, as soon as I got out of the car: "Mandi, can you give me a ride?"
"No, Bridget" *cough* "it's late, I'm tired and I'm going to bed."
"I need to go to my girlfriend's on Centennial Lane."
"No, Bridget." (Didn't you hear me the first time?)
"I need to get my diabetes medication."
"No, Bridget." (From your girlfriend's house? Give me a break.)
"Please?"
"No, Bridget." I went inside, making sure my car was locked.

I am going to bed now and getting up relatively early tomorrow, and the first thing I'm doing is checking my car for egg stains.

What do I have to do, brandish a sharp object at her and scream, "STOP ASKING ME FOR RIDES, YOU LYING TWIT OR I WILL HURT YOU" at the top of my lungs?

I might as well take my old tape recorder, record myself saying, "No, Bridget," and play it back the next time she opens her mouth.

But it was still a good evening otherwise. More later. Bed now.