Good Morning! I hope your Tuesday has started with a bang (figuratively speaking, naturally). My day, so far, has been spectacular! I arose this morning with a snicker . . IDK why, but trust me, when one arises in a sassy mood, its always a good thing. The following occurrence is probably the start of something beautiful, but I'll let you decide.
I know you all remember the lady from the elevator. The one who wears tights and socks and sneakers . . . ? Since that unfortunate accident, she hasn't had the pleasure of seeing my brightened summer highlights or fashionable seersucker pants, and I had started to feel bad. As you know, I think its kind of like my job (in addition to my other job) to spread joy and happiness where ever I go (more about this later) . . . kind of like a Mother Theresa and pre-stalked Princess Diana . . . with maybe a splash of Reese Witherspoon and Lohan thrown in there. Alas, I spend hours a day thinking of others, and doing things for their convenience. The people in my office building really should thank me. Like, when I'm so anxious to get the fuck out of work (i.e. everyday) I always make sure to act like I'm trying to push the button for the doors to stay open, just so people won't have to feel bad that they have nothing exciting to do when they get home or that they don't have any Yurman, or that their hair has totes gone flat after an 8-hour day. And when I'm on the elevator, I'm always sure to push the "Call Cancel" button, so we don't stop at every (fucking) floor, which, in turn, allows the 'vator to get back up to my floor (and the people I graciously left) and take them home. Further, I always park right in the front, the "Visitor" spot, remember? I wouldn't want to deny any of the idiots who spend their lunch hours jogging the parking lot a chance to add a few steps on their pedometer. I am the gift that keeps on giving.
Anyway, back to the homegirl at hand. Amongst my friends, and in my diary, I've been calling her 'Vator . . . because I don't care to figure out her real name (although I doubt she'd tell me) and 'Vator sounds way more street, which she obvi is. Since our non-Kodak moment run-in, she's been scarce, I haven't seen her PT Cruiser with the spinners all up in my front row parking spot, she certainly hasn't been on the elevator (but then again, no one ever is) and I haven't heard her bitching at the guys who wash her car in the parking lot below. Weird! I began to worry. But then, today, as I was walking into the building, I saw it.
The fucking PT Cruiser . . . at the end of the parking lot! Like, at least 100 yards away. No one parks there, ever, so I began to wonder. I mean, I know about luxury automobiles. I've got a 2001 Honda Civic. You better believe that when I bought that shit new in cash I would take up a million spots just to insure that no one scratched my baby (also because I was, and still am, a shitty parker . . . whatever), so I can relate in wanting to take extra good care of yo' whip. But she never had before, and it didn't look like she had a new (candy) paint job, so I was quite puzzled. I mean, what was over there? Why did she park so far? She wasn't a lunch walker, that's for sure. I assumed it just was because she clearly takes care of her ride and wants it protected. Like I stated previously, I understand. If you take away all the (drunk) "fender benders" (which includes a few hit and runs, one involving some jackass in West Campus) I've been in, my ride is sweet. Really. Hm.
So, obvi, I did what any considerate, caring (about one's car or humanity in general) person would do, I got back in my car, and drove all the way to the end of the lot, and parked right next to her. After all, I care about my automobile, too.
Ultimately, I'm hoping this fosters some kind of dialogue between the two of us. I mean, we both like wearing tights with socks and sneakers. Bottom line. We both, obviously, care a great deal about other people with shit cars hitting our sedans. We will see. I'll keep you posted.
But for now, it seems I may have met my office building soul mate. Birds of a feather, for sure.