Well meaning . . .
. . . but clueless
Today, on our weekly trip to the Navy Exchange/Commissary, Mrs. B decided to have her bangs trimmed.
The shetland sheepherder vibe wasn't working for her.
Rather than sit on the institutional rock-hard chairs in the shop and listen to discussions of womens' hairstyles, I wandered out to our Escape to read a new James Patterson book.
Did I mention that Mrs. B walks with a cane and has a handicap parking placard? She does, due to several back surgeries that were not completely successful. Our car was parked in one of the 12 handicap-marked parking spots in front of the NEX. Ten of them were empty.
I was engrossed in the story, windows down, 62F breeze blowing in, until I heard an "EXCUSE ME!"
I looked up, and the following conversation ensued:
Me: I beg your pardon?
Him: Are you pregnant?
Me (instantly understanding where he was going) : Excuse me?
Him: I said "Are you pregnant?" The sign says "Parking for Mothers-to-be and Handicapped."
Me: I can read.
Me (calmly, with no trace of anger in my voice): I appreciate you asking, because too many people hijack handicap parking spaces. In fact, my wife has a permit, and she is inside getting her hair cut. I suggest, though, that the next time you ask, you rephrase your question, and you will come off as a concerned citizen rather than a sarcastic jerk. Are we good now?
Twat . . .
There is a reason folks my age become grumpy. Our lifetime ration of shite has been filled, we require no more, and we will reject it with extreme prejudice.