Monday, April 18, 2011

The Kindness of a Stranger

Ladies, have you ever had one of those "damnit, I need a man!" moments?  No, not the dirty kind.  The kind where you aren't strong, tall, smart, or able-enough to do a task?  I'm by no means a feminist (my About Me on thefacebook actually states that I hate feminists) but I have learned to do pretty much everything without the help of a fella ... living on your own kinda makes that necessary.  However, there are those moments that it would be convenient to have the assistance of a fella.

This past winter, we were hit with a pretty nasty snowstorm and I had to get to work at the bar that evening.  It was about noon when I decided to check out the car situation and see if I could dig myself out.  Unfortunately, the only tools I had were a tiny handheld windshield scraper (which happened to be inside the car that was buried in snow and ice) and a bowl from my kitchen.  I went to work in my sweatpants and favorite pair of Uggs (no, I also don't have snowboots).  Much to my dismay, the total of about 15 people who walked past me made no effort to help.  No words of encouragement (a simple "you can do it!" would have sufficed), no offer of a more useful snow-removal toolkit, nada.  After an hour of stainless steel bowl digging, falling 2-3 times, and generally getting fed up from the work, I begrudgingly went back inside (in just enough time to hop on a conference call).  Where are all the gentlemen in my apartment complex to help a gal in need?  Perhaps if I hadn't been in sweatpants and a hoodie (both 2+ sizes too big) and using a cooking bowl as a shovel, then someone may have been more willing to assist.  I NEEDED A MAN! 

About an hour later, the conference call ended, and I was even more determined to dig myself out.  I focused my bowl skills on digging my tires out.  After a little research, I discovered that I could die if snow piled up my by tailpipe, so that was my first target.  Death by snow digging wasn't my preferred method (what is Cat Lady's preferred method, you may ask?  Easy: explosion by eating too much food.  All of my favorite kinds.  When I'm like 100 or too old to care that I'd be the talk of the town). 

Snow digging attempt #2 was a big failure, as I fell a few too many times, and the melting snow started to seep into my precious Uggs.  I called up the bar and begged to have a drunk come dig me out.  As the customers were presently too intoxicated to drive to "the big city" (which, incidently is not a city, but rather the suburbs and about 15 minutes away from them), I had to figure out what I was going to do with myself. 

I did a little more Googling to learn more about the conundrum I was in, and went back out for attempt #3 (all the while praying and begging in my head for a fella to come rescue me).  Another 20 minutes of bowl digging, and a neighbor boy (alright, man) came rushing outside with a real live shovel and offered to help.  Two thoughts came to mind: a) THANK GOD!!!  Someone to come save me! and b) If he came outside with shovel in hand, that means that he was able to see me face-plant only moments ago out his window.  He must have thought "that sweatpant blob over there looks troubled" and came to my rescue.  My hero!

After about 5 minutes of real shovel digging, my hero finally dug me out and told me to drive out of the spot.  Being completely frustrated with the situation and not wanting this guy to see what a terrible snow driver I am, I asked him to help me out.  He pulled my car out after a few attempts and as he awkwardly handed me my bowl, he made a comment about my needing new windshield wipers (I broke one off during snow digging attempt #1, attempting to lift it in the air as the other neighbors had done.  Instead of making it easier to clear off my windshield, I broke the thing clear off.  Oops).

I decided that I needed to reward this kind man with a thank-you note (the appropriate thing for a lady to do in such a situation).  I spent awhile thinking of the appropriate verbage, as I knew he had roommates (there were three names on his mailbox), and I didn't know if one of these roommates was a girlfriend.  That would be really awkward if I started a fight because I gave out my number or offered services for his kindness.  So I composed a note to my future husband (as I was jokingly calling him to my friends) thanking him for his kindness. 

Cue to a few weeks later when fatty Cat Lady went to Chicken Filet for some waffle fries (also cue my favorite YouTube clip everrrr).  I was walking into the apartment all sly-like on the phone with my mom, and heard a voice from above, asking me what I had in the bag (the voice from above happened to be Neighbor Boy on his porch, commenting about my dinner).  I ignored him, and went inside.

I haven't seen Neighbor Boy again since that fatty day.  Terrible.  I guess my note didn't work in my favor.  Or he wanted to share my fries and he thought it UNFORGIVABLE that I didn't offer any.  Thusly, it's very appropriate to be a gentleman.  However, I shouldn't behave like a lady.

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