My Life, cameo appearance by: Parking Lot Douchebag

Fun Fact # 04: I am an incredibly passive-aggressive personality, emphasis on the passive. What this means is that if and when I decide to act upon my annoyance/frustration/vexation, it is incredibly sneaky and nigh anonymous.

Now let me tell you about today.

I was perusing the internet, and got an email from Pottery Barn about a sale. I love Pottery Barn and I love things on sale, so naturally, I followed the link to their website to discover the their wood series frames were 20% off. $16 for a frame? Heck yes.

So I travel down to the mall, and get my frames. Now, as you can imagine, I am in a fantastic mood! Two new frames, a pleasant shopping experience, and I'm chit-chatting with my mother about my trip to New York. All is well. I didn't even mind that I got lost in the parking lot (cause I'm one of those smart kids that can never remember to remember where she parked...)

Here's where it gets dicey. I find my car in all his glory. I'm at the passenger side door, unlocking it to put in my shopping bag, and I hear the problem before I see it. Somewhere in the distance behind me is a horribly loud sound system coming from a car whose driver has god-awful taste in music. (I know this because I recognize the crap-rock style of throat-singing sensation Scott Stapp.) So I'm trying to continue my conversation, despite the growing intensity of the atrocious musical stylings of Creed, until I can no longer hear my mother because parking lot douchebag has decided to park right next to me.

Now I would like to paint you a picture of Parking Lot Douchebag. He is driving a jacked up, flame-decaled, must-be-compensating-for-a-lot Ford F-150 with off-roading tires that appear to have only driven obnoxiously over a median or two because the jackass operator of the vehicle couldn't wait his freaking turn to cross traffic. He drives with his windows down in the rain. Yes, that's right, it was raining, muggy and 80 degrees and this guy has his windows down like it's effing San Diego in the springtime. He is forcing everyone within a mile radius of his super-cool self to listen to his vomit-inducing taste in music, and he is wearing an NRA t-shirt. Until today, I did not realize the NRA made t-shirts. I know better now. He is caucasian, he is overweight, and sloppy. He is wearing flip-flops and has some of the nastiest looking toes I have ever seen. He is exactly what you would expect, and for a brief moment, I am sad for Texas.

At this point, I know my mother is talking, but I cannot hear her. He is idling in his parking spot, music still raging, and I am livid. So I yell into the phone:

Mom, I know you're talking, but some jackass just pulled up and his horrid music is playing so fucking loud that I cannot hear you so I'm going to have to call you back.

Now, I should mention that I did not actually intend for Parking Lot Douchebag to hear me. Again, I am of the passive-aggressive persuasion. But I am finishing my sentence as he is opening his door, and he hears me. For a moment, my thoughts are a bit of a panic, because I really don't mouth off to strangers. I have seen too many crime shows where road rage gets the best of someone and the next thing you know, your chest cavity is the new home of a nine-millimeter bullet. So I just make it a habit of not being a smartass to the unpredictable. But the window of opportunity to get shot in the head passes, and I have once again returned to my irritated state of being.

So I move around to the driver's side of the car to get in, and that's when I hear it. His voice, his nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard-to-my-brain vocal rendition of a baby crying. He is mocking me for being pissed off at him, and something in my brain switches on. Because I drive a red sports car that screams "I might be small, but don't think for a second that I won't entirely run you over." I get OUT of my car. I turn to where he is standing, now just behind my vehicle, and I say:

You know what? You can just fucking go to hell.

And I mean it. And he's looking at me, and Parking Lot Douchebag knows I mean it. Because I might be a passive-aggressive person, and I am almost always polite to strangers because THAT is what my mother taught me to do, but there is no way in hell that this guy is going to get the last word. No sir. Parking Lot Douchebag absolutely does not get to walk away thinking that he won this interchange. I win. I'm right, I'm pissed, and I win.

Parking Lot Douchebag's trashy girlfriend gives him a nudge to keep walking, because she knows what's up. He mumbles something about me needing to get over it, and I tell him to keep fucking walking. In my head, my thoughts are "you are not thinking this through," and "who the hell is talking right now?" because you have no earthly understanding of how out-of-character this is for me. Staring down a guy twice my size, and I'm outnumbered? Not very rational, and not my style. But like I said, I was not about to let this guy win.

So they leave, and that's when I realize that my father is still on the phone. And he has heard this entire exchange and I can practically see him on the other end with his palm against his forehead, shaking his head back and forth going, "only Eleanor, no one else, only her." And he is praying to God that he doesn't hear gunfire, or police sirens and yet, he says nothing. He just waits.

And I get back on the phone and I say:

Hey Dad, Mom said she needed to call me back? That's fine, I will talk to you guys later.

And he agrees with a small chuckle in his voice, and we hang up. And I sit in my car for a few moments, reveling in the events that just took place.

Only me, no one else, only me.