I was asked by my friend and his father to help them move across Waikiki from one apartment to the other. They had reserved a fifteen-foot truck but neither of them could drive — my friend doesn’t have a license and I believe his father was injured — so I was asked to be their driver. I wasn’t looking forward to navigating downtown Waikiki with a fifteen-foot-long rectangle, but I agreed under the promise of dinner.

We arrived at the local truck rental dealer and encountered an employee outside. He gladly showed us the truck we were renting and ushered us into the building to do the paperwork.

Midway through, this happened. 

Agent: “Oh, I don’t have the keys.”

Me: “Oh… maybe it’s in your dropbox?”

Agent: “No, I just got all the after-hours return keys. I bet the woman before you left them in the truck. I’ll be right back.”

The agent left and was gone for all of three minutes before he burst back through the front doors like a tornado, knocking over an innocent hand truck on display. 

Agent: *Grabbing the phone* “THE TRUCK IS GONE!”

All Three Of Us: “What?!”

Agent: “Someone stole the truck! She left the keys in it! Hello, police, please!”

We had to wait until the agent finished reporting the vehicle as stolen. We found out later that the previous renter DID, indeed, leave the keys in the vehicle, and a random passerby jumped into the truck and drove off while we were doing the paperwork. 

We ended up with a nine-foot-long van instead of a fifteen-foot truck because that was all they could offer us now that our intended vehicle was on a joyride across God’s creation. The agency waived a ton of the normal fees, discounted the base rental, and threw in that hand truck I mentioned earlier for free. 

I enjoyed the maneuverability of our cargo van, and navigating Waikiki’s congested and narrow streets was much easier with a “normal” vehicle; however, without the extra space, the move took eight trips back and forth across the city instead of the one we were hoping for.

I decide to go for a drive because there really isn’t anything to do with a combination of bad weather and ongoing lockdown mandates in Hawaii. My adventure takes me to a town where I come across a small ramen shop in a strip mall. The largest business here is a grocery store that sits among a variety of small restaurants, and the parking lot is extremely cramped and small.

When I arrive, I end up behind a Hyundai Sedan. The woman in the Hyundai parks in a five-minute parking stall which is clearly marked as such with three signs as well as banners painted on the ground across the front of each stall. These spaces have the advantage of being pretty much right against the doors of the restaurants and seem to be for picking up to-go orders.

I take the stall directly behind the stall she selected, across the aisle, which, as far as I can tell, is the only other available stall in the entire parking lot.

I sit in my car for a moment as I am on a phone call with one of my friends, and as I am sitting there, the woman gets out of her car, looks at the five-minute parking sign, looks at the painted stall markings, looks back at the sign again, and gets back into her car. She starts reversing and it soon becomes clear that she is attempting to back into the space I took, so I lean on the horn and flash my high beams to alert her of my presence. For the record, my car is almost NEON red; I don’t understand how she didn’t see me. She pulls back into the five-minute parking stall and gets out of her car.

I shake my head and resume my phone call when it becomes clear that she is attempting to talk to me by shouting from her car to mine. I wind down my window.

Woman: “Hey! You need to move!”

Me: “What?”

I open my door, look at the ground, and look for overhead signs just in case I have accidentally parked in a handicap stall or loading area, as some of these small shopping centers have bad markings. I find that my stall is a normal vehicle stall.

Me: “What do you mean?”

Woman: “You weren’t supposed to park there.”

Me: “Why?”

Woman: “I was trying to park there!”

Me: “No, you weren’t; you parked there! I even waited until you turned your car off before turning in.”

Woman: “Well, this is five-minute parking.”

Me: “Yes, I am aware; it is clearly marked as such.”

Woman: “I need to go to [Grocery Store]. That’s going to be longer than five minutes, so I need you to park somewhere else!”

Me: “Oh, no, I have business here, so I’m going to keep the stall.”

Woman: “No, you have to move! That stall was empty when I arrived! You shouldn’t have taken it.”

Me: “But you parked there, not here! You can’t claim a parking space just because it was open when you arrived. You chose your space. I chose mine.”

Woman: “Well, I didn’t see the five-minute parking sign.”

Me: “That’s not my problem, lady.”

For the record, if she had a handicap placard or plate, or even if she had just asked nicely, I would have moved because I am literally there on a whim to eat at this random noodle shop. I have nothing but time to burn and could gladly find a new place to be, but now I am irritated by this entitlement, and because of that eating, at this ramen shop is now my number one priority.

My outright refusal to cater to her needs, as well as my brusque response, do not please her as she gets out of her car and starts approaching mine, all huffy, pulling out her cellphone.

Woman: “You have to move.”

Me: “No, I don’t, and I’m not going to.”

I shut my car and the lights off finally.

Woman: “Well, I don’t—”

Her eyes catch my movement as I turn my dashboard camera to face her and she stops mid-sentence, staring at this black square mounted under my rearview mirror.

Me: “Yeah! That’s a dashboard camera, with audio, and it has been recording this whole time, so guess where you’re going to end up?”

This was an empty threat; as good as this camera is, it would not have — and in fact, did not — catch the whole conversation since it was situated inside the cab of the car. The woman, however, did not know that, and all the fight seemed to blow out of her as soon as she thought her behavior was on camera and subject to be posted to the Internet.

She turned on her heel and pretty much ran to the grocery store.

The woman ended up leaving her car in five-minute parking. By the time I left the ramen shop, it had already obtained a parking violation from the mall’s onsite security, though I doubt those carry any weight at all.

The ramen shop was amazing, by the way.

A man checks into our hotel with his wife, and a few minutes later, he comes back down alone.

Male Guest: “I don’t like the way our room looks. Can you redecorate it?”

Me: “I’m sorry, that’s just the way our rooms look. I can’t do anything about it.”

Male Guest: *Turns red* “Now, you listen here, you little s***—”

Female Guest: “[Male Guest]!”

Male Guest: *Turns around sheepishly* “Hi, honey.”

Female Guest: “I told you, if we go on a second honeymoon, I want you to behave yourself. This is your last chance, remember?”

Male Guest: *Turns to me* “I’m so sorry.”

Female Guest: “Good. I’m sorry, too, honey!”

I’m at a restaurant with the option to order at your table through a mobile device. While browsing the menu, I see an entry labeled “Brunch Special” with no other description. Curious, I flag down the nearest staff person, a busser.

Me: “Hi, can you tell me what the brunch special is?”

Busser: “Oh, uh, I don’t think we do brunch specials here. I’m not sure what that is. We do have something that we’re only serving today, though.”

Me: “Great. What is it?”

Busser: “I don’t know. I’ll find your waitress.”

The waitress comes over. I repeat my question about the brunch special.

Waitress: “I don’t know what that is on the menu. We don’t do brunch specials. There is something that’s only available today. Would you like to hear about that?”

Me: “Sure, yes.”

The not-brunch-special-special turned out to be pineapple upside-down pancakes, and yes, they were only available that day, for brunch.

My husband and I had been trying for another baby for a few months when I finally got a positive pregnancy test. I called the OBGYN office and booked my first appointment, expecting it to be like the first appointments for my other two children where we previously lived: a physical exam, listening to the heartbeat on an in-office Doppler machine, addressing any concerns that might be revealed in the exam, and some counseling about healthy habits during pregnancy.

However, the appointment turned out to be just confirming the pregnancy, using the exact same sort of urine test you can buy in dollar stores (which I’d done at home). I wasn’t able to get an appointment to be seen for an exam until several weeks later, too late for any early genetic testing; it’s lucky I wasn’t planning to have those, given my family and personal history.

And for extra fun, when I gave the nurse my urine sample (in a paper towel-wrapped cup), she took it, stared at my two- and four-year-old, sighed, and asked with disdain, “If this comes back positive, are you keeping it?”

The office didn’t offer abortion services. Why would I have come if I were seeking that? If they had to ask about my plans for pregnancy, why do it so bluntly, and with the impression that three is too many kids for someone to have? It set the tone for all the rest of the pregnancy visits, wherein I was treated like a nuisance and a hassle. I was very happy to move in the eighth month of pregnancy and have my third child in a more welcoming environment — one which includes a few childfree-by-choice aunts and uncles who said I could have an extra child or two in their place.