My Grandma Would've Known Better...
I bitch about people not teaching their kids anything all the time; I can't figure out if it's because the adults don't know any better, or if they just don't give a damn what their kids are doing.
One afternoon at IHOP, I came out the door to find a lovely (ignorant) family standing around near my car; I got there just in time to watch an elementary school age boy attempt a head-dive off the concrete parking bumper and firmly plant both hands on the hood of my car. The Dad of the bunch may or may not have seen my eyes, but I know he heard my gasp.
My dismay with "The State Of Affairs In North Tulsa" (Howdy, Google!) was tremendously emphasized by a lovely experience while we were eating lunch in the car at QuickTrip. Someone in the SUV next to us banged their door into my quarter and then wedged their large ass against it trying to get out; all the while shaking my entire car in their effort to exit theirs. None of them noticed me when I got out to walk around my car and check for a massive cow-rub where the door had been. Seriously, I was sitting in the car when they pulled in and parked there, it's not like they had some score to settle 'cause I'd parked too close. Safety-schmafety, when it comes down to the choice between eating-while-driving or sitting in a North Tulsa QT Parking Lot; unless you have a permit for the gun in your car, just get the hell away from there...
And today, in my own hometown, I am stunned by the supposed adult who doesn't know any better.
Now, deep in my heart, I know that my car probably looks like an anthropology exhibit. I'm sure it's people-watcher heaven, especially when it's sittin' there with the non-tinted windows halfway down. I have stuff, okay? It's not like there's half a burrito and a forgotten order of fries in there -- it's not garbage, it's just stuff; like books or magazines, CD's, my joggin' jacket, an extra t-shirt, all those silly book club mailers I keep forgetting to take to the shredder, my blowgun and a bundle of darts, that hat that I keep meaning to give to Scott... It's not smelly-nasty-garbagey, but it sometimes accumulates a strange assortment of unrelated stuff, so I can almost understand how it might be at least mildly interesting to look at.
I cannot understand why this ol' lady didn't feel the least bit invasive about starting at the shotgun seat and working her way around the back to the driver's door, walkin' slow & easy and peekin' in every window.
I also cannot understand why she thought it might be acceptable to pet the hood of my car as she made her way around the front.
I don't get it at all.
If my Grandma had seen it, she'da kicked that grandma's ass.
One afternoon at IHOP, I came out the door to find a lovely (ignorant) family standing around near my car; I got there just in time to watch an elementary school age boy attempt a head-dive off the concrete parking bumper and firmly plant both hands on the hood of my car. The Dad of the bunch may or may not have seen my eyes, but I know he heard my gasp.
My dismay with "The State Of Affairs In North Tulsa" (Howdy, Google!) was tremendously emphasized by a lovely experience while we were eating lunch in the car at QuickTrip. Someone in the SUV next to us banged their door into my quarter and then wedged their large ass against it trying to get out; all the while shaking my entire car in their effort to exit theirs. None of them noticed me when I got out to walk around my car and check for a massive cow-rub where the door had been. Seriously, I was sitting in the car when they pulled in and parked there, it's not like they had some score to settle 'cause I'd parked too close. Safety-schmafety, when it comes down to the choice between eating-while-driving or sitting in a North Tulsa QT Parking Lot; unless you have a permit for the gun in your car, just get the hell away from there...
And today, in my own hometown, I am stunned by the supposed adult who doesn't know any better.
Now, deep in my heart, I know that my car probably looks like an anthropology exhibit. I'm sure it's people-watcher heaven, especially when it's sittin' there with the non-tinted windows halfway down. I have stuff, okay? It's not like there's half a burrito and a forgotten order of fries in there -- it's not garbage, it's just stuff; like books or magazines, CD's, my joggin' jacket, an extra t-shirt, all those silly book club mailers I keep forgetting to take to the shredder, my blowgun and a bundle of darts, that hat that I keep meaning to give to Scott... It's not smelly-nasty-garbagey, but it sometimes accumulates a strange assortment of unrelated stuff, so I can almost understand how it might be at least mildly interesting to look at.
I cannot understand why this ol' lady didn't feel the least bit invasive about starting at the shotgun seat and working her way around the back to the driver's door, walkin' slow & easy and peekin' in every window.
I also cannot understand why she thought it might be acceptable to pet the hood of my car as she made her way around the front.
I don't get it at all.
If my Grandma had seen it, she'da kicked that grandma's ass.
posted by Debbie at 12:52 PM
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