July 8, 2010
I don't know who went ahead and tipped the world off its axis, but when I consider the goings on of yesterday and this morning, I'm pretty well convinced that I'm the only lucid person plodding around on this great green earth.
It all started yesterday afternoon, when my home phone rang with a number I completely didn't recognize. I picked it up, said hello, and was answered by a man, who I'm absolutely certain, was the oldest man in the entire history of the universe.
Do you ever read the Old Testament? Do you ever wonder who these people were who popped out babies at the ripe old age of 94 and lived to eat cake at their 932nd birthday party? Well mystery solved, I had one on my phone.
Now don't get me wrong here, I 100% love the elderly. I really mean that. I visit with my ninety-year-old neighbor almost every day, I listen to long and convoluted World War II stories with a genuine interest, and when I see a little old lady struggling to reach a can of peas at the supermarket, I ditch my kids and run to save the day.
So when I heard the super old voice on the phone, my heart lit up a little bit. "Maybe," I thought, "someone needs to bring their cat to the vet, and I'd be honored to assist."
But this guy wasn't thinking about cats, he just needed to find his friend named Spence.
ME: No, I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number. This is the Lawsons.
HIM: Well I need to talk to Spence.
ME: I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.
HIM: I don't care. Let me talk to Spence.
ME: Oh, I'm sorry, you dialed the wrong number. This is not where Spence lives.
HIM: Well who lives there?
ME: Uhhhh....the Lawsons.
ME: The Lawsons....Jared, Amy, James, Maggie...
HIM: Well what's Spence's number?
ME: I'm sorry, I don't know Spence or his number.
HIM: Everyone knows Spence.
ME: Well I'm new in town, so I don't know Spence.
HIM: Well go find him, introduce yourself, and tell him to call me!
I can't find Spence, and I'm having a moderate to severe case of guilt over the whole situation. Luckily, the guilt temporarily subsided when I was sidetracked by a woman at the grocery store this morning.
I stopped at Hannaford to buy a block of cream cheese, and there she was, staring at the cream cheese display--a woman who was about to chat me up until my ear fell off and was blindly swept up by maintenance. I could just sense it--something about her dress and the fact that her kid was climbing through the Hostess display while she undressed the Whipped Philadelphia with her eyes. I mean really, can we get just a touch of reverence around the cream filled cupcakes? Can we?
I came up beside her, avoided eye contact at all costs, grabbed my store brand box, and turned to make a clean escape. Except I heard her voice in the distance...."How old is he?"
Dang it. Maggie's so obviously a she, I couldn't let that one slide.
ME: She's almost 9 months.
HER: She? No, he's definitely a boy.
ME: Well I guess it could go either way with the white onesie, but she's a girl.
HER: That baby's all boy.
ME: It's hard to tell with babies, but you should see her in a pink dress--all girl.
HER: Well he's adorable. How much does he weigh?
ME: 16 pounds, she's a peanut.
HER: He looks wicked healthy. I would have guessed 7 pounds. He'll probably grow up to be very, very short.
As if that exchange didn't thoroughly rock my world to its very fragile core, I stopped to get some gas on my way back home. When I went inside to prepay, I quickly remembered that we quite literally have nothing but radishes in the fridge, so I grabbed a slice of cheese pizza for later.
Don't judge me. The gas station pizza will blow your mind.
I went up to the counter, laid a couple of twenties in front of the clerk, and here's what happened next...
ME: One slice and the rest can go to pump three.
ME: Yup, cheese.
HIM: We've got Mexican pizza ya know.
ME: Oh, I just like cheese.
HIM: But don't you want to try the Mexican pizza?
ME: Oh, no thanks, I'll just take a slice of cheese.
HIM: So you don't like Mexicans?
HIM: What you got against Mexicans?
Well let me tell you, I took my change and vacated those premises as fast as I possibly could.
And just for the record, I have absolutely no problem with the Mexican people. It's the ghetto hicks who eat Mexican pizza--they're the ones who keep me up at night.