Note to the people I know don’t read this blog, in the interest of the humor of those who do.
Hanging your body out of your window to blow me a kiss will NOT get you my number.
But it will get you featured on my blog.
A man and his passenger in a truck just passed me on 290, heading East toward Manor. As they passed, they stared. Big time, heads turned, my-god-my-god-keep-your-eyes-on-the-road STARED. Then I had to pass them (approaching a light) and they made ogling faces. They passed me again (thanks a lot, Manorhood) and this time they rolled down the window to look. Finally, against my better judgment but in accordance with traffic, I passed them a last time – at which point the passenger HUNG HIS UPPER BODY OUT OF THE WIDOW BLOWING ME KISSES(not the cute way, if there is a cute way for this to happen, the CREEPY way). I was, by a miracle of God, able to retain my lunch.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s only the first time this week. Creepers have a radar and I set it off. I’m like to silent-to-humans high pitched noise that sets dogs barking late at night (although, I’ve also dated/attracted some of the greatest men I’ve ever met, but that’s not as funny nor does it fit the theme of this blog, so…).
But as I stared ahead and let off the gas enough to annoy the people behind me for the sake of my own mental safety, I thought, “You know, who thinks this is a good idea? For whom might this work?”
And then I remembered.
The time: Summer 2004
The place: the intersection of Scarsdale and Hughes, heading toward the Semler’s house.
The scene: Joy and I are in the car. Windows down. Music up. Life is good. I look to the right. Past joy. Another car, with two end-of-teen dudes. I am not intrigued. I am noticing. The passenger, who I can see best, is mediocre looking. Meaning he’s good looking but he doesn’t have a beard so whatever, what’s the point? And then I see it. Atop his skinny-trying-to-look-buff-whatever-we-all-remember-being-18-bicep. A tattoo. I can see it because he has no sleeves on his shirt. Meaning he cut them off. But this does not distract me from the greatness of the tattoo. The TRANSFORMERS tattoo.
“Joy!” I exclaimed. She turned, beating the drums of the song into the steering wheel of her 2000 Ford Taurus, “What?” she demanded, as she lazily glanced over in the direction of my enthusiasm. Joining my geek out, she shouts,“OHMYGOSH.”
They turn. They look. We realize they can hear us. Not everyone has such damaged hearing from too-loud-music-listening. Joy motions for them to roll down their windows. They, reluctantly, do.“Nice tat!!” She exclaims, meaning something very different than they understand. Sly smiles crossing their faces, they chin-nod in cool response. “Can we take a picture?” I ask, pulling out one of the many disposable cameras always gracing the floorboards of the Silver Bizzullet (the name of aforementioned Taurus which no, they don’t make anymore). “Yeah,” says the driver, annoying the passenger, who not-quite-cooly looks ahead as he obviously thinks “what the deuce do I do with my face?!”
The light turns green. We hyperly thank them and drive off. And inadvertently become the only reason I can think of to excuse the out-of-door-hanging described from this afternoon.