Not literally...

{dramatic, thrumming music}

Clad in painted-on black, the woman lowers herself artfully on a gossamer thread from on high. Her delicate hand gestures, the dome opens, and we see a button: “Start Engine.” A single finger pushes the button. {rrrrrrrrrrrrooooooom!}

{more dramatic, thrumming music}

The black car jets through the streets to the dramatic, thrumming music.

“You know,” I said thoughtfully. “That would be stupid. I mean, can you imagine if I had to lower myself from the ceiling through all those wires and stuff and so forth and so on, just to start my car in the morning? I can barely get the four of you into clean clothes and shoes and into the van, how would I…”

“Mommy,” Eldest responded, in tones of great exasperation. “You don’t actually have to do that. They’re just trying to sell you the car!”

Well. Guess there’s no foolin’ her now, is there. No moss growing on her. No stupid children around the old Den, either.

Hmm. I guess that means that I also wouldn't look like Ms. Painted On Clothes if I bought the car...?