Oh, Scottsdale, you inconvenient slut, you.
Last night, Beck and I trekked over to L.A. Minor to see the "Ultimate Green Scene," an open house event at "the mixed-use, luxury residential project, the Optima Camelview Village." It's a huge, flora-smothered complex smack in the middle of Snotsdale featuring over-the-top amenities, 1.4 million dollar condos, etc. For all the lushness (luxury- and plant-wise), they entirely failed to explain what was green about the place. Ah, well. Xtina had helped out with one of the art exhibits and sent us an e-mail about the event, but due to some miscommunications over text, phone and e-mail, we went down there at 4 instead of the 6:30 she had planned on. Beck got cold* and hungry, so we got back in the car and looked around Collagenland for a place to eat. We settled on Stax, a burger joint. Our troubles started in the parking lot.
* - B: "I'm cold!" N: "Here, take my sweater; I've got a long sleeve shirt on underneath." B: "No." N: "Why not?" B: "I'm fine with complaining." N: "HRC**! HRC!"
** - neologism courtesy of iPMeghan. It stands for "Help-rejecting Complainer," an apparent frequent feature of humans everywhere.
Beck parked her itty bitty and thoroughly plastic Prius *slightly* to the right of center in a parking spot at the end of a row. I got out of the passenger's side, opening the door slowly and sliding out so as not to touch the car next to us. We started walking to Stax when behind us, a loud, shrill voice announced to the night:
"I really hope you didn't door my jeep!!!"
We all but ignored the voice, primarily not realizing that it was directed at me but also subconsciously, I am sure, refusing to recognize the use of "door" as a verb*. Unsatisfied, the wobbly an utterly Slutsdale-clad lady repeated her invective:
"I REALLY HOPE YOU DIDN'T DOOR MY JEEP SINCE YOU PARKED SO CLOSE TO IT."
* - In drunk skank's defense**, I realized I have used the word "door" as a verb, too, but only in the passive construction. It refers to when you are biking in Boston along the right side of the lane and a parked car's driver opens his driver's side door to exit as you pass; the proper construction is "I got doored on the way to work this morning," and every biker in the world will know what you mean. Just for the record, the proper response to getting doored - should you anticipate the action in time - is not to slam your brakes but to deliver a 20 mph forearm shiver to the driver in question. This, hopefully, will serve as Pavlovian reminder the next time they decide to exit their car on a busy street without checking the traffic behind them.
** - Or, as Beck noted this morning, "You can verb anything."
Okay, she got our attention. She was a typical Scottsdolt specimen, free to yell anything as passers by on account of her beefcake date (who, to his credit, ignored this exchange entirely). Beck politely responded, "What!!?!?" and the lady continued yelling, "You parked way close to it and he got out so slowly, I'm just warning you better not have doored my jeep." Flabbergasting, and I especially like the suspicion based on the fact that I had done the appropriate thing and exited the car carefully. WTF, crazy lady. Beck had slowly unholstered the Iron Fist and was about to discharge her God-given right to bear arms when I pulled her away and said, "Don't worry, your car is fine." Eskiho slams her door shut; Beck watched them pull out to make sure they didn't do something stupid to our car. Just an idiotic exchange, and as Beck noted, it's bizarre when you're traipsing around the earth assuming people are going to be decent and they just open up on such unfounded, hostile notes. So thanks for putting a senseless damper on our evening, moron; really appreciate it. Maybe next time you can actually check for a scratch on your car before demonstrating your esteemed IQ to the public.
And many, many apologies for exiting my car carefully. How DARE I!
No comments:
Post a Comment