That’s bullshit: Theme song edition

May 13

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Wow, it’s been a long while.  Sorry about that – I’ve been meaning to write a whole bunch of things, but I’ve been a wee bit overextended of late and sadly you, my loyal 5-7 readers, have suffered as a consequence. Good thing my fellow bloggers have stepped up and filled in the gaps, eh? Oh.  Well, something popped into my head yesterday morning, and if I don’t get it out now, it might be another long while until I can make that happen.

I’m not sure why, but the theme song from “Gilligan’s Island” was playing in my head at about 5:45am.  A lot has been made over the years about this song, namely pointing out the amount of luggage people had for what was supposed to be a “three-hour tour” (though they still wore the same outfits almost all the time, right?).  Another common theme I’ve heard extends throughout the series: don’t The Skipper and The Professor have real names? (According to Wikipedia, yes they do.  I kinda wish I never looked at that though.)  I consider all of that old news though, for something different struck me about the song this time.  “If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost,” we’re told in the song.  Granted, I haven’t seen the first couple of episodes of that show for…I don’t know, maybe 25 years, but that’s a very important line.  I can’t recall a single instance of the other castaways thanking The Skipper and Gilligan for their heroism.  Yes, they were stranded on an island with no sign of rescue, but the crew saved their frickin’ lives.  I would hope that they could express a little gratitude for that.  But no, all I remember is poor Gilligan getting made fun of and/or belittled with nary a “thank you” to be heard.  The island was not a fate worse than death, so that type of behavior isn’t just wrong – that’s bullshit.

Tags: , ,

The great impression

Apr 7

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

I was standing at my desk when a colleague came by.  She said, “Hey, can you come into my office? I want to show you something.”  If real life had a pause button, employing it here would’ve allowed to me think for a minute before answering.  I would’ve thought about a few things:

1. I’ve never really spoken to this person before, excluding very brief pleasantries.
2. I’ve only been here about two months, so maybe I should wait a little longer before revealing what a weirdo I am.
3. She kinda reminds me of Angela from “The Office,” who is portrayed as very proper and conservative.

But oh, this silly life does not (yet) have pause buttons, so I just responded as I normally would: “Ok, but if it’s a severed head, I’m going to be very upset.”  My favorite brother is nodding right now because he knows I’m quoting “Wayne’s World,” but not everyone was a teenage boy when that movie came out in 1992.  Halfway through the sentence, I started thinking, “Oh crap, why did you answer this way?  You don’t really know this person and this is your real first impression with her.  Way to let your freak flag fly, buddy.”

I finished my sentence and she turned back to look at me.  Without missing a beat, she replied, “What if it’s a mutilated kitty?” “Oh that’s totally fine,” I said, and we finished walking to her office.  Now that line, my friends, is not from “Wayne’s World” or really anything I can think of.  So she just called my strange and unpleasant comment and raised me with one I find to be even more disturbing.  And ya know what?  I applaud that shit out of that.

Is there some moral about how one should always be true to him/herself and speak freely?  No, I think I just got lucky.  It might not have worked out the same way if I had gone with “Schwing!” instead.

Tags: ,

Don’t name that tune

Mar 24

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 7 Comments

We recently co-hosted a couples baby shower for fellow blogger Mike Honcho and the expecting Mrs. Honcho.  Co-host Lisa put me in charge of the games for the shower, so I spent some time looking online and trying to think up two easy and not stupid ones.  It was harder than I expected since almost everything online sounded god awful, disgusting, and/or moronic, but I think we ultimately succeeded.

One of the games was a Jeopardy-esque “answer and question” extravaganza.  We had guests write out answers to specific pre-written baby-related questions, and then I read those answers aloud.  The parents-to-be would confer and then guess the questions – nothing mind-blowing but pretty solid, right?  Well I was particularly excited about one of the questions: “What song shouldn’t you sing to your baby?”  If I had been given this card, I probably would’ve gone with “Afternoon Delight” for its wholly inappropriate subject matter.  And I would’ve been wrong.  This is one of those rare times in which I think there is an absolutely correct answer, and Mrs. Honcho’s sister’s boyfriend nailed it.  “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails is the song, and it’s 100% perfect.

If you know the song, you’re nodding in agreement.  If you’re my mom, you’re foolishly still thinking that “Afternoon Delight” would’ve been a good answer.  Well Mom, most people know “Closer” as the “I wanna fuck you like an animal” song, since that line is repeated – and later screamed – several times in the song.  It begins with, “You let me violate you/You let me desecrate you/You let me penetrate you.”  (On the plus side, you can’t spell “penetrate” without Peter.)  And it’s not just the words; the song’s hard, electronic beat is the antithesis of a lullaby.  It’s perfect, and I was a little upset with myself for not thinking of it first.

Naturally, I spent the next day trying to one-up or even match that choice.  The easy path is picking any gangsta rap song, but I’m going to argue that those are off limits since they’re not “sung” and the question specifically used that verb.  It’s too bad, because Ice T has a great selection, including “Cop Killer” and “LGBNAF,” which stands for “Let’s Get Butt Naked And Fuck.”  Surprisingly, I think “LGBNAF” is actually more melodic than “Closer,” with softer beats and fewer…angry whispers.  I then switched to other inappropriate content and thought about “Fuck Her Gently” by the rock comedy duo known as Tenacious D.  Great song, great lyrics, but once again it’s actually kinda pretty if you don’t speak English.

Sure, there are heavy metal songs that are just non-stop loud screaming, but if I can’t understand the lyrics, then they don’t seem as bad.  To me, “Closer” has it all and is the undisputed correct answer.  Rarely in life do I find things that make me say, “Yes – that’s the absolute perfect choice,” but it happened on that day.  Maybe the movies are right, and the miracle of bringing a new life into this world really can help people see things clearly.

Tags: , ,

Flight of fancy

Mar 16

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

I’m not supposed to be here this week.  Instead, I’m supposed to be in Asheville, North Carolina and then Des Moines, Iowa.  Though both are known as international tourist hotspots in March, I was actually set to go for business.  Near the last minute, the trip got pushed back a couple of weeks.  These kinds of things happen, I suppose, so I went online to cancel and rebook my flights, hotels, and car rentals.

As it turns out, doing that was a pain in the ass and took a lot longer than I expected.  I got through it though, had my new electronic reservations, and was ready to go.  Then Monday morning came, and I got an email saying that my flight that day was scheduled to be on-time.  Ruh roh.  I went online to make sure I had successfully cancelled that flight, and I was surprised by what I saw.

First, I saw that the flight to North Carolina was not listed under “Current Trips.”  Second, under “Cancelled Trips,” I saw my second and third legs of the trip, but not the first.  So it was neither active nor inactive.  Hmm.  But that’s not all, my friends; a new flight had appeared out of nowhere.  Somehow (I know not how), there was a flight from Midway in Chicago to… Midway in Chicago.  Oh, and the date of that flight?  January 1, 1970.  I was magically booked on a flight from and to the same place that I should try to board when I’m negative 7.5 years old.  And this is why we should be afraid of the machines taking over.

I called customer service and explained my predicament.  When I pointed out the phantom Chicago flight, I added, “And I assure you I won’t be able to make that one.”  She confirmed that I was cancelled on all of the ones for my initial trip and apologized for the confusion.  As luck would have it, my trip was pushed back a couple of more weeks, so I’ll have the joy of rebooking again in the next day or so.  Maybe I can get lucky and find another phantom flight on my itinerary.  And maybe this time I should check to see if it’s actually some kind of time-travel wormhole before I cancel it.  I’m just sayin’.

Tags: , ,

At the vet

Mar 11

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

A week ago, we were lucky enough to bring our dog home from the emergency veterinary hospital.  She had some very bad mystery infection, emergency surgery, and then a series of ups and downs that made for an extremely draining week (both emotionally and financially).  But we brought her home, and in the week since, she’s appeared to quickly rebound and is amazingly almost completely back to her old self.  We’re still cautiously optimistic since no one really knows what caused the infection or where it actually was, and we want to see how she does after she’s off the antibiotics. That said, she’s home and we feel very fortunate.

When my lovely wife and I were at the veterinary hospital last weekend, an interesting interaction occurred.  First, an older woman came in hurriedly.  She said she needed help bringing her dog in from the car.  The young lady behind the desk asked what was wrong with the dog, but it didn’t register and the woman repeated her need for assistance.  Someone was dispatched to help out, and the staff member tried again to get more information.  “He’s been vomiting and panting a lot,” the woman answered as she turned to walk back to her car.  “Ma’am, what’s your pet’s name?” She yelled out a name while exiting.  I don’t remember exactly what it was, but it was something like Fletcher, and I thought it was a pretty good dog name.

When the lady returned, the vet staff was getting the dog from the car.  “Ma’am, you said Fletcher is vomiting and panting?”  She confirmed that and added a few more details.  “And what’s your last name?”  “Fletcher,” she said.  “Oh, ok, so that’s not the dog’s name?”  “No.”  The lady then proceeded to give a name, but it ended up being her name instead of the dog’s.  On the third attempt, she provided the dog’s actual name (which I don’t remember but it wasn’t as solid as Fletcher).  “And is he neutered?” “Of course,” said the woman.

Here’s the thing: I was in the middle of forming a sentence about that response.  I was even already in the process of turning to my wife to comment on it.  I probably would’ve said something like, “‘Of course?’ If it were that obvious, they probably wouldn’t have to ask everyone.”  I didn’t get to do that though, because the lady had a second part to her sentence: “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  My lovely wife and I looked at each other with the same exact expression.  “Did she…?”  “I think so.”  “What does that even mean?”  “I have no idea.”  “But…but…” “I really have no idea.”

We had a lot on our minds at the time, but I quickly emailed myself that quote for a future post.  Now that I have the benefit of time and brain space, I still have no fucking clue what that means.  At the heart of her statement, she’s saying, “If my dog still had the ability to procreate, he and I would be married.  Since he can’t, there’s no reason to make it official.”  I just have no idea what to do with that.  Does his lack of balls make him less attractive to her now?  Or since he can’t make her a baby, it’s just empty sex with no real strings attached?  But that brings me back to the “Of course” answer from before.  Now that’s even weirder.  “Of course I had him neutered, you moron.  Otherwise the temptation would be too great to marry and settle down with him!  Society isn’t ready for that – slippery slope and all.  If they let me marry him, then people would want to start marrying their plants and bicycles.  Too bad, ’cause he’s damn sexy.”

To repeat: “Is he neutered?”  “Of course…otherwise he’d be my husband.”  I think I speak for all of us when I sincerely ask, “What the fucking fuck?”  Good luck, Not Fletcher; I hope you’re healed, back at home, and successfully fighting off the advances of your owner.

Tags: , ,

Aging ungracefully

Mar 9

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 4 Comments

I’ve never been the kind of person who cares about his age.  Turning 30 didn’t frighten or upset me in any way, and I don’t expect future milestones to either.  I know there are tons of people out there who repeatedly celebrate their 29th or 39th birthdays, but that’s always seemed silly and rather illogical to me.  All that being said, I had two age-related conversations at work recently that actually pained me a bit.

First off, I sit next to a very nice young lady.  She’s an intern, so I already understood that she was young but hadn’t given it too much thought.  I had a couple of questions for her, but we had a meeting starting a minute from then, so I said, “We can walk and talk, just like on ‘The West Wing.’”  “Excuse me?” she asked.  “Oh, on ‘The West Wing’ they always had conversations while walking the halls of the White House.”  It turns out that she never watched the show because when it first came on the air, she was…in elementary school.  I had already graduated college when the pilot aired.  It would be one thing if I were talking to some younger cousin or something, but I view her as a colleague and near-peer, so it didn’t occur to me that we were in entirely different generations.  That became even clearer when I saw her mug that said “Class of 2007.”  Oh yeah – and that was from her high school.

Secondly, the topic of age came up last week again when I was chatting with three or four people.  “How old are you?” one asked.  Before I could answer, one younger lady thought it would be wise to offer a guess: “38?”  Like I said at the beginning of this post, I truly don’t mind my age number getting higher…but that one got me.  “38!” I exclaimed.  Someone else asked, “You’re 34, right?”  “Yes, just 34,” I said.  I know there’s not a huge difference there, and I’ll be 35 in just a few months, but that’s the first time in my entire life that someone has guessed my age to be multiple years older than it actually is.  I always got younger guesses (and have even posted about being carded at Trader Joe’s – do they card people who look 38?), so that one stung a little.  Is it the beard?  I don’t think so, because I’ve had it a few years now.  Is it that I’ve been carrying myself more professionally than normal?  Nah, probably not.  Do I need to start using that eye cream?  Maybe.  I’m telling myself that she’s just bad at guessing ages in general, as some people are.  To be fair, I don’t know if she’s 23 or 28, and neither would shock me.  But I never would just offer the high end of the range, even if asked directly.  But maybe it’s exactly that kind of wisdom that comes with my advanced age.

(I wrote the majority of this post two weeks ago and am just getting around to finishing/posting it now.  During that time, someone guessed that the 22 year-old intern was 24.  She made a slightly horrified face.  “Not fun, is it?” I asked.  “No,” she replied, “not fun.”)

Tags: , ,

The new guy blues

Feb 11

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

When starting a new job, everyone wants to put their best feet forward and make the most favorable initial impressions possible.  A lot of these things are within one’s control: eye contact, displaying a genuine interest in the company/co-workers, not blasting gangsta rap, etc.  Then there are things outside of one’s control that crop up.  Unsurprisingly, I have a story from the latter category.

It was my second week on the job, and though I’m super shitty with directions, I was finding my way around the office pretty well.  It’s many times larger than my last working environment, plus there’s a bunch of construction going on that’s caused some wings to shape-shift from one day to the next.  Regardless, I was getting my bearings and feeling good about that.  I’d even settled on a bathrooming routing.  (Yes, bathrooming.  Look for it in the 2032 Olympics.)  There’s the main, multi-stall/multi-urinal bathroom by the elevators (about 85 steps from my workspace), and a small, single-user, unisex one about a third of that distance away.  My plan is simple: don’t shit in the small one.  Makes sense, right?

On this particular day, I walked over to the smaller bathroom to do my lesser business.  I went inside, locked the door, and then turned to see splashes of urine on the unlifted toilet seat.  It was already too late for me to remove myself from the situation.  Even quickly unlocking the door and leaving would still make it seem like I had been the last one to use the facility, so I was firmly entrenched in this predicament.  My options were clear: have people think that I rudely pissed on the toilet seat with no regard for others or clean up a stranger’s urine.  I kicked the seat up with my foot and thought about my options while I let loose my liquid.  I finished up and knew what I had to do.  I grabbed some toilet paper, lowered the seat, quickly wiped the inconsiderate stranger’s mess off of the seat (that never should’ve been left down in the first place), flushed my pee, his pee, and the t.p. down the toilet, and thoroughly washed my hands.  It sucked, but it’s what I had to do unless I wanted to risk having some female see me leave the bathroom, assume the rudely left urine was mine, and tell others about the asshole new guy.  I couldn’t let that happen, but the forced clean-up of some douchebag’s errant stream still left me (wait for it) a little pissed.

p.s. It only occurred to me while writing this that there was a third option I didn’t consider.  I could have put the toilet seat up, done my thing, and then left it up.  The next person might have thought I was rude for not lowering the seat, but upon lowering it herself, she would’ve known that I hadn’t been the errant pee-r.  I wouldn’t have ultimately settled on that option because I still end up looking like a minor jerk, and I’m trying to avoid that until completely necessary.

p.p.s. I couldn’t help but think of David Serdaris’ story “Big Boy” while I was in there.  If you’re familiar with that story, you probably already thought about it during this post.  If you’re not, you should be.  It’s good shit.

Tags: ,

Topanga Canyon = Communist Russia

Jan 31

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

I’ll say this up front: I think of a lot of strange things, and not all of them work.  This might be one of those times, but that’s never stopped me before.

Last week, I was taking the long and winding road (cue music) to work named Topanga Canyon.  For those of you unfamiliar with this road, it’s about 10.5 miles of one-lane twists and turns that take you up and down a mountain in order to avoid the 405.  On this particular trip, the events that unfolded left me likening them to the machinations of a totalitarian state.  I don’t know if Communist Russia is actually the best example, but since I just read a three-book series set in that environment, it’s the one that first came to mind.  (Incidentally, those books also made me dream about denouncing my family as Western spies, but that’s neither here nor there.)

I was driving along at a decent speed, a happy worker bee in the system.  Before long, I saw the cars up ahead were moving a little more slowly.  The reason was clear: a pickup truck wasn’t going as fast as others would like.  The pickup truck was our leader, though we had no say in the matter and never collectively chose him to be our #1.  Because of his position of power, he set the pace for the rest of the cars, and there were now five of us behind him (with me in the #4 spot).  After just a minute or so in this situation, it was clear that the proletariat – oops, I mean the cars behind him – were getting unhappy.  The car directly behind the truck got a little closer to it, expressing his displeasure and encouraging the truck to use one of the turnouts.  The rest of us followed suit, each inching closer to the car in front of us to send the clear signal to the truck that we were in solidarity.  The truck wasn’t having any of it.  Though likely fully aware of the unrest in the masses, he stuck to his guns and refused to cede control of the road.  Meanwhile, the rest of us were bonding and growing more hostile by the minute.  A turnout would go by unused, and we’d all throw up a hand as if to say, “Come on, man!”   Minutes went by, and our collective frustration grew.  We felt oppressed by the absolute nature of his rule, but we were no longer going to resign ourselves to the tyranny.  After another couple of turns, some polite-ish honks and “move over” gestures started (none by me, but I appreciated my comrades – er, fellow commuters – taking further action).  Still nothing happened.  The truck ruled with an iron… whatever the car equivalent to a fist is.  The message was clear: “I’m in charge.  This is how slowly I want to drive.  You can’t do shit about it.  So suck it.”  Just like Stalin, am I right?

Another minute later, and the truck’s left turn signal went on.  Not the right one, which would’ve indicated the use of a turnout, but the left, meaning he was turning.  This was no abdication of the throne, and he stuck to the pillars of his regime until the very end.  He then made his turn, and you could practically hear the cars rejoicing.  What a coup!  The will of the people had prevailed!  The euphoria was palpable as our collective speed shot up another 10mph or so.

As the new #1 moved along, something changed.  You see, at first we only had the pickup truck as a point of comparison.  In that regard, the new #1 was doing a great job.  Slowly though, that car (a silver Mercedes) became judged on his own merit rather than just being celebrated for his “anyone but that pickup truck” status.  He now had to deal with being the leader and the pressures that come along with that position of power.  Only a minute or two into his reign, the car behind him moved in closer.  New #2 (a tan sedan) had a taste of revolution, and he wasn’t prepared to give that up yet.  He had ambition, and #1 was his only obstacle on his road to glory.  Closer and closer he got, the Lieutenant who dreamed to be the General.  I could sense #1′s fear by the way he drove: he sped up on the straight-aways to try to prove his worthiness, but he wasn’t comfortable taking the turns fast enough to keep the overzealous sedan off his ass.  He wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the pickup truck.  Instead, his rule was anything but absolute, always keeping a careful eye on the underlings he once led and wondering when he’d have to use the white flag equivalent of the turn signal.

But not today, my friends.  Though I felt like the driver’s hand was probably already moving toward the signal lever, the traffic gods intervened.  We were literally reaching the end of the road, and there would be no more revolting on this day.  We made it to Pacific Coast Highway, and everyone went on their respective ways to their respective destinations.  Whether it was to work, home, or to run an errand, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that after 10.5 miles comprised of tyrannical oppression, the unification and rise of the masses, a bloodless revolution, the dawn of a new era, an internal threat from an old ally, and a thwarted coup d’etat, we were all free.  The ocean had never looked so beautiful.

Tags: ,

That’s bullshit: Rhyming edition, Part 2

Jan 28

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

As I typed in the title of this post, I went back into the archives and saw that rhyming had already earned its own “That’s Bullshit” post.  So I named this “Part 2,” but it’s not really a sequel.  It’s not even a gritty reboot of a franchise, though I do appreciate those.  Disirregardless, I shall press on.

Let’s talk about the word “again.”  It rhymes with “ten” and many other common words in this glorious yet frustrating language we call English, right?.  Do you know what it doesn’t rhyme with?  “Main,” “train,” or “Bahrain.”  Yet that rhyme pops up in song lyrics and poems all the time.  I get it, it looks like it should rhyme with those words, but here’s the thing: it doesn’t.  For too long, I’ve heard lyrics like, “I’m standing in the rain/And I miss her once again” and just thought to myself, “Oh yeah, we pretend that those words rhyme.”  Why do we let that slide?  It’s not like the real way we pronounce “again” wouldn’t have any words with which to rhyme and so we give it a free pass and let it feast in the -ain/-ane category.  There are plenty of great words there, but we still just hear that non-rhyme and accept it because we’ve been conditioned to think it’s been granted some kind of rhyming bigamy.  Why?  Just because they look like they should rhyme with each other?  That’s not a good enough reason.  We don’t pretend that “laughter” and “slaughter” rhyme, “rough” and “through,” or “show” and “how,” so what’s so special about “again”?  Nothing, and fuck that.  When the singer/writer pronounces the word as “uh-GEN,” then it has to rhyme with the right words.  Anything else, and that’s bullshit.

Tags: , ,

Special delivery

Jan 12

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

I’m starting a new job in a little over a week, but until then, I have some time during the weekdays.  This means that I can go places when not everyone else is there.  Markets and stores are much less crowded at 10am on a Tuesday than pretty much any other time I used to be able to go.  Two days ago was a perfect example; mid-day, I took a trip out to the bank, the post office, and then the drycleaners before coming home, and none of them were crowded.  It was great, but that’s not why I’m writing.  Nay, friends, I’m writing because my middle stop was a little out of the ordinary.

As I pulled into the parking lot for the post office, I smiled at the number of empty spaces.  I settled on one just a few spaces away from the entrance, which was good since I was going to be carrying a box into the establishment.  I walked in and got in line, which was mercifully short – only three parties ahead of me and one was already being helped.  Directly in front of me was a woman who had a baby in a carseat with her.  The baby was small, and when the woman saw me smiling at the kid, she implored him to say hi to me (which he refused).  I asked how old he was, and she said, “Almost three months.”  I was thinking about when my kids were that small when I heard a pretty loud crash behind me.  If you had frozen time and asked me to predict what caused that sound without looking, my best guess would have been that one of the “Line starts here” stanchions had fallen over.  I would have been wrong.  I turned around and saw the front of a car partially inside the post office.  I shook my head a little and looked more closely.  Indeed, a car had run into the building and broken the lower panes of the window through which it entered.  Next to it was an uprooted parking sign that had a Q-tip-esque mound of dirt attached to where it had once been firmly in the ground.  Part of the car (a piece of fender maybe) was inside the post office, a good five feet from the window.  My first coherent thought was something like, “Well that’s interesting.”

Other people were not as calm.  Some ran outside immediately to see if the driver was hurt (which is a better reaction to have, I’d say).  A group magically appeared around the car, assessing the situation.  The woman at the front of the line kept asking, “Do we need to dial 911?  Do we need to dial 911?”  A woman near the door finally told her that it had been done already and that the lady who was driving the car was shaken up but fine.  “She hit the gas instead of the brake,” she explained.  “That’s an important distinction not to fuck up,” I said inside my head.

The lady with the baby and I made eye contact.  We both made “big eyes” to intimate “wow” to each other, but she immediately turned more distracted.  She took a step away from the carseat on the ground, walked back to it, left again, and returned again.  “You ok?” I asked.  “I just remembered that I’m parked next to that spot,” she said.  “Oh yeah,” I thought, “I guess it’s good that I parked a few more down.”  “Will you watch him for a second?” she asked me while pointing to the carseat.   “Of course,” I said, and she left me – a complete and total stranger – with her almost three-month old baby.  She came back less than a minute later and said that her car was somehow spared.  “The police and ambulance are on their way,” she said, but she still looked really nervous.  “I’m sure she’ll be ok,” I said reassuringly.  “Oh, no, it’s just that I hope their cars don’t block me in.  Maybe I should leave now so that doesn’t happen.”  We collectively decided that since she was now next in line, she’d take her chances and stay where she was.  Only one of the three postal workers was helping customers at that moment, since the other two were getting information from the driver, telling people what happened, etc.

Just a few minutes later, a male postal worker resumed his post and waved me over.  “You don’t see that every day,” I said, figuring that that was the most appropriate quip.  I was wrong again.  “Well, four or five times actually,” he said.  “Really?  All here?”  He nodded.  “Why?” I asked, not really expecting him to have an answer.  “The parking lot comes right up to the side of the building, and people push the wrong pedal,” he said matter-of-factly. I let it go, but I couldn’t imagine that enough people make that exact error in that exact location to have him witness four or five cars drive into his place of work.  Shows what I know.

I walked past the crowd to my car, backed out of the spot very slowly (by pushing the correct pedals, might I add), and headed over to pick up my drycleaning.  Thinking about what had just happened, I wondered if it was some kind of cosmic balance thing: oh sure, you can go run errands when it’s less crowded, but be careful – that’s when the highest incidence of pedal confusion happens.

Tags: ,