CARMA

About a month ago my boss sent me on a field trip to research products in our category carried by a national drug store chain. Being that I love any excuse to leave the office, I excitedly nodded my enthusiasm to writing down brand, retail/temp. reduction pricing, etc. while standing in the middle of an aisle. Better than listening to my co-worker ask me how to merge cells in Excel or remind her dog had not pooped yet that day. (Jealous?)

Off I bounced, happily to my car and off for an errand. Similar to paying bills, I enjoy weird mindless tasks like buying shampoo and making free right turns.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that each parked car alternated with an empty spot, a bad equation for door dings when parking in between them. Being that I am harped on constantly by the Subaru Doog Ding Patrol, I opted for a much smoother alternative. The row directly across offered wide open space, free of aggressive door slammers, so I backed Lucy in between the lines and joyfully headed into the store.

Ten minutes later I emerged, notes in hand, and approached my car.

“What is that?” I thought. A parking ticket? I apprehensively looked around. I am familiar with the area, and know there are numerous cat-callers, had someone left me a note? Yes, I am in fact narcissistic enough to believe that someone would leave a note on my windshield indicating interest in me. I wear puffy vests with fur hoods, who can say no to that?!

How wrong was I? Well, rather than a phone number and creepy invitation for drinks, I was surprised with a phone number and…insurance information. Wait, what? She hit my car? I frantically circled my property, almost with a defensive crouch, looking for the dent, the gash, the scrap! But..nothing. I quickly rescanned the note..”right front fender.” My eyes darted..scan..scan..scan..and there it was. A small, dime size blemish that protruded out of my bumper.

So, that’s how it goes huh? Park in a ding-free zone and get backed into. All I can say is this driver must have some fantastic karma, because backing into Lucy – pushing her bumped in the bumper beam – is going to cost a whopping $1000.

I would have much rather gotten a sketchy phone number.

Like, ohmigod, totally ‘Trick or Treat!"

For Halloween this year, I was entirely lame. I didn’t get a costume, nor did I go to a party. Rather, I grocery shopped, made dinner, then sat with my laptop waiting for trick or treaters to come to the door. Sometimes, it’s great to have friends that live in the ‘burbs.

COSTUMES! KIDS! CANDY!

How is this entertaining, you ask yourself? Well, the majority of it isn’t. What immediately struck me as “my life for your entertainment” was my encounter with the Safeway checker.

I approached the checkout and began unloading my cart. This is where it all started.

Checker: Let me guess, college student?
Me: Oh, no no, I graduated.
Checker: No, your costume..

Yoga pants + Sweater = college student.

Me: Ah yes. During finals week. Ha. Ha. Ha.

After making a silly crack about his own army costume (note: apparently it’s illegal for him to wear it, even though he’s retired…) I entered a realm of blushing and TMI.

Generally, all things kid related make me go “awwwwww” and put a smile on my face. Not this time. We, nay HE, dove into a “s*it my kid says” type of conversation. He was kind of ringing up my groceries but mostly telling me about his 4-year old’s bowel movements.

Ok, fine, that is a slight exaggeration. Regardless, my eyes begin to roam with my thoughts.

“I love this wallet….”
“Why is he scanning so slowly? Doesn’t he know about trick or treaters?”
“Let’s see…who’s standing behind me…”

He continues, “…so anyways, of course we had to go to Value Village for his costume. $4!”

I nod, then add “What a deal!”

“It’s basically too small, but you know kids, even though it’s up his butt he doesn’t care.”

Nodding.

“…and I tell him it’s ok to say ‘bottom,’ because, well, that’s what it is.”

More nodding on my part.

“…but, of course, he says ‘penis.'”

My eyes snapped forward, while my cheeks turned a hot shade of red. My eyes shifted to the line of men behind me. Was I shrinking? Or does that not happen in reality, and only in movies with Rick Moranis? Somehow I managed out an awkward chuckle.

“…which is fair because that’s what it is you know.”

Back to the nodding. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact he’ll figure it out.

“…because I don’t want him using the word ‘dick.'”

OH MY GOD. Take my wallet! Take my credit cards! Take my groceries! YOU KEEP THEM.

Don’t get me wrong, the male anatomy is…um, well it’s there, can I leave it at that? I have no trouble with sexuality but PLEASE MAN save me AND YOUR CHILD a little bit of embarrassment and skip the penis talk. Or at least warn me, so I can put my Zumba cloths on and chug some vodka while I’m at it. Oye.