On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I had just finished a sushi dinner with my family in Las Vegas’ Arts District when we summoned an Uber to drive us to a Miranda Lambert concert on the Strip. We were picked up in a Tesla. I drive a ’92 Volvo station wagon. Suffice it to say, I didn’t know how to open the Tesla’s doors.

Our driver, a former blackjack dealer in the Philippines who was trying to find similar employment in Sin City, helped load us into the electric car and headed down Charleston toward Interstate 15. Shortly before we were to enter the freeway, I heard a fart noise in the back seat.

“Uh-oh,” I thought. “She did it again.”