Well, that was fun.
I had an early morning physical. I totally forgot about it until they called last night to confirm, but a little deadline skooshing here and there and, hey, no problem.
I had a 9:15 appointment, which means for a change, when I got to the doctor's office, the parking lot was nearly empty. Usually, you have to monkey around for a spot. The fact my column today is about parking makes the coming tale even more fun.
This is a small doctor's office. She has about four spots right outside her office - it's a one level building. The rest of the building is the usual medical-type offices. There was a car in the third spot when I pulled in, but the rest were empty. That car was a medical kind of car - the little zip around ones that bring reports or pick up samples or something. I dunno. I'm making this up as I go. It was logo-d with medical type things. I parked to the left of this car, which meant the spot to my left was open.
So far, so good.
And then I came out. There was a square of paper tucked under my windshield wiper. Odd. I pulled it out, and found this note:
I sat for a moment, and considered my detective skills. A quick recap to anyone who might feel lost: I'd parked to the left of a small car. Nobody else around. Okay, carrying on. There were now cars on either side of me. We were all parked perfectly fine. Hmmm. I hadn't noticed anyone in the doctor's office who struck me as the type who would throw around the word 'douchebag' with any sort of frequency. I admit, you never know, but still. I wonder if Nancy Drew ever had this happen to her.
I think this is a guy. Not sure why, but the female in me knows we mostly just get mad and get going because we're busy. We don't bother writing notes. And we don't want to lean across cars and risk getting dirt and birdcrap on our clothes. My car is covered in birdcrap; it sits under a huge maple tree, and this time of year, it's pretty gross.
I looked at the style of writing. That mix of writing and printing has a European thing about it. German/Hungarian/Polish. I recognize it from birthday and Christmas cards over the years from that part of my family with those roots. Black ballpoint pen; the cheapest kind. Piece of scrap paper just big enough for the note - my Dad would do that. Wouldn't waste anything. If I were to leave a note calling someone a douchebag, I would use a black finetip Sharpie and a whole piece of paper. I'm extravagant that way. It would also be illegible because I type everything and my writing has gone to hell. So, I'm guessing this person still writes a lot.
I've settled on an older, possibly Slavic, dude. With a temper. Why older? Younger would be more elaborate, and call me a douchenozzle or something like that. Kids today like to make it their own, to quote Randy on American Idol. The thing is, to call a stranger a douchebag is pretty harsh. Except. EXCEPT: THIS IS HOW MY CAR WAS WHEN I CAME OUT:
I do not know what transpired in that parking lot while my doctor was spelunking in my nether regions. I admit, I wasn't giving it much thought; I had other things on my mind. But you know, to get ragey enough to bother writing a note like that takes some level of anger that just can't be good for a person. I mean, you're already at the doctor's. You think maybe when she asks you 'any changes in your health, changed any prescriptions, doing any street drugs, how much do you drink' and you say 'no', you might want to add, "however, I do get indescribably crazy nutzoid when someone parks beside me so I leave them fairly filthy notes to call attention to their unacceptable behavior."
The doctor might say to you, "well, Crazy Nutzoid, how can you be sure the person you're blaming is actually the culprit?" But Crazy Nutzoid won't pause to consider that, because I have a feeling this person is ALWAYS right and if their family is reading this, they're nodding and groaning. You know who this is. Or someone just like him.
And for the record? That's Ms. Douchebag to you.