Hey, Mama

My condo unit has an assigned, numbered parking space in a surface lot, which is naturally where I tried to put my car when I got home late the other night.

As I got closer, however, I saw that it was already occupied. And not only had this SUV blocked my spot, but it had also pulled halfway into the spot across from me.

"What a dick!" I thought, assuming it was a drunken mistake. I drove back out to park on the street, which wasn't the biggest deal in the world, but it did require me to walk alone to the safety of my building. So I decided to alert the driver to their error.

I did not immediately call a tow truck, and I especially did not (as was once done to me) park my car directly behind the person for several hours, in addition to writing a nasty note on an impossible-to-remove window sticker. Because I'm not an asshole.

I simply stopped in the lobby and grabbed a handy, pre-printed warning notice. I went back out to the lot and was just slipping the paper under a windshield wiper when the driver's side window rolled down.

Ladies and gentlemen, there was almost pee.

I had no idea anyone was in the car, but I suddenly heard, "Hey mama, what you want?"

What I wanted was to not hear a disembodied voice coming from the darkness of a strange vehicle, although if it was going to say anything, I can't imagine a better question.

"AHHH!" I said, after restarting my heart. "You're in my spot."

"I just pulled in here to talk to my mom . . . Yo! What'd you put on my car?"

"It's just a courtesy notice that you're parked in an assigned space."

"Oh, I can move. You want me to move?"

"Yes, that'd be great," I said, and he assured me it was no problem.

And weirdly, I kind of felt like I should wave at him as he left. Because I think we shared a real moment of mild terror together that night -- him of being ticketed, me of being murdered -- and that can only bring two people closer, right?

Bad Grammar Makes Me Sic

My sister texted me the other morning for help. With grammar, of course. It's really the only professional situation where it's beneficial to be my sibling.

She was drafting a client letter and wanted to know whether she should use "who" or "whom."

I did a little figuring and confidently proclaimed the winner. And then, out of sheer hubris, I explained the trick for turning the statement into a question to determine which word was correct.

But this text arrived at an uncharacteristically early hour, and I'd typed my response in my PJs in bed. By the time I'd washed my face, brushed my teeth, and shuffled out into the kitchen, the synapses were firing with a bit more precision, and I realized I'd given her the wrong answer entirely.

I quickly texted, "Wait! You're catching me before coffee. It should be whom." I then explained where I'd gone wrong in my sleepy calculations.

She texted back, "THE LETTER IS IN THE MAIL ALREADY!!!!"

Keep in mind that literally eight minutes had passed since our original exchange. I cursed her for being so efficient. She said it was probably fine. I told her it's one of those grammar things that 5% of people understand, but most of them are dicks about it, so the other 95% have decided not to care. 

But still, I felt that I'd failed her, and told her so.

She simply responded, "May God have mercy on your soul."

And that's why I love her.

Camp WhataWhata?

I was walking through the skyway yesterday when I caught one of the weirdest snippets of conversation I've ever heard.

Two middle-aged guys were passing me in the opposite direction. One guy clapped his hand on the other one's back and said, " . . . but how did you end up naked, at camp, and on fire?"

If it wouldn't have been so painfully obvious, I would have whipped a 180 right there and followed them just to hear his reply.

A few seconds later, faintly and in the distance, I heard the same guy say, "That's crazy, man."

This was, in my opinion, an unnecessary comment, given the setup of the story previously established. By definition, the answer to the initial question was going to be next-level bonkers.

But it made me laugh all the way to work, so I'm happy you're now clothed and extinguished, sir.

Character Study

A couple weeks ago, I attended a play at a local theater. Part of the story revolved around a man and a woman who had had a love affair many years ago but ended up going their separate ways.

In one of the later scenes, the couple reunites, and a very passionate kiss ensues. During this frenzied embrace, for comedic effect, the male actor grabbed the woman's rear end.

It was at this point in the show that an older lady sitting in front of me turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "Ha ha! . . . TRUMP."

While she may have missed the mark a bit in terms of consent, I couldn't have agreed more with the general sentiment about a man who puts the "ass" in harassment. 

Comfortably Numb

When I was about 12 years old, I had to have four teeth removed in preparation for getting braces.

After the dentist unceremoniously yanked my molars, my mom put a slightly groggy Cotonee into the car and headed home. She made one quick stop at a convenience store, leaving me to wait.

I was lolling heavy-lidded in the passenger seat when two younger kids walked by the car. I turned slowly to look at them. They stopped, stared, appeared fairly horrified, and promptly ran in the other direction.

Even in my addled state, I knew this was a weird reaction. So I pulled down the visor and checked the mirror.

And that's when I saw that, unbeknownst to me due to novocaine, two rivulets of blood were running slowly out of the corners of my mouth and down my chin. Like the scariest, most gauze-packed vampire ever to venture out in broad daylight.

When my mom returned, I had to assure her it wasn't residual nitrous oxide that had me giggling.

Blonde Ambition

I was talking with a friend this weekend about how we met while working together many years ago, and I remembered the absolute craziest story about inappropriate workplace comments.

During a particularly busy season, our department hired several temporary workers to help with the overload. They were all in their early 20s, very capable, and perfectly nice for the most part.

We'd been working with them for a few weeks, but we hadn't socialized as a group beyond maybe a quick lunch or two, when one young guy approached my coworker in her office. He made some chit chat and then suggested that the two of them should spend more time together one on one.

My coworker was a bit baffled by his chummy attitude, because everyone was well aware that she was gay, and she hadn't said more than polite hellos to this guy. When she asked why he thought they should hang out, this is what he said. (Remember that this is at work, to a senior team member of the opposite sex, and someone he doesn't know well. I've also cleaned it up a bit.)

"We have a lot in common," he insisted.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well," he said, very matter-of-factly. "We're both blonde. We're both effed up. And we both like p***y."

My coworker was, understandably, stunned. But to her credit, she gathered her wits and simply shot back, "What makes you think I'm effed up?"

He wasn't around long after that. And I don't know if it was bravado, naiveté, or just plain stupidity, but about a month later, this same guy emailed me asking for a recommendation. 

Now that's effed up.

I Do-nate

My sister is getting married this spring. Last weekend, her future husband went out with a few of his buddies for a bachelor party. He returned home happy and tipsy, but the next morning he wanted to have a serious discussion.

"I have to tell you about something I did last night," he said.

My sister's heart dropped, her mind raced. He's generally a trustworthy guy, but maybe a final celebration of freedom brought out a monster.

"At one of the bars we went to, they were having a benefit for some kid. And I gave them the $100 I won in fantasy football."

Not fighting or gambling or hookers and blow. Just misplaced guilt over the idea that he maybe should have done something "fun" with that much money.

We think he's a keeper.

Aw, Nuts!

When I was in high school, I worked at a drug/variety store that carried everything from medicine and cosmetics to fabric and household goods. It truly was such a wide spectrum of items that it was easy to get confused.

Hence, this story that I hope is still being handed down as drugstore lore.

One of my coworkers passed a young boy, maybe in his tweens, standing mystified in the aisle that held all the cake decorating and party supplies. When she asked if she could help him find anything, he was suddenly quite embarrassed. He turned three shades of red and mumbled under his breath that another employee had directed him there in pursuit of a particular item.

"What are you looking for?" my coworker inquired, unaware that frostings and candles could require such a hushed tone of voice.

"Ummmmm . . . well . . . nut cups," the boy confessed.

And in an instant, my coworker realized the error, a slang term misinterpreted. What he wanted was an athletic supporter with a protective cup. What he was staring at on the shelf were tiny paper cups intended to hold nuts and candy as a complement to a festive table setting.

"But these seem kind of small," he said.

Somehow, in that moment, my coworker maintained her composure. She sent him, with reassurances and apologies, to the sports equipment section.

But I still think about that kid. How relieved he ultimately was, and how confused he must have been, wondering A) how everything was supposed to fit, and B) how such thin paper could possibly shield his testicles from harm.

He must have thought the initial advice was absolute bollocks.