Even The Ghosts Thought That Was Cold

, , , , , | Friendly | December 7, 2018

(My friends and I have joined in on a tour of a hotel supposedly haunted by a little boy. The tour is being run by a group that has a few married couples. It’s decided that a group of females will go into the room where the little boy is supposed to be. There is one woman acting as lead.)

Leader: *addressing the ghost* “If you would like to make yourself known or even seen, we wish you no harm. We are all mothers here…” *even louder and with a b****y undertone* “…except for those who can’t actually have children.”

(I wonder why she would even toss that comment in. We wait about ten minutes with no action, so we move out into the pitch-black hall to get ready to move to the next part of the tour. A few minutes later, my friend hears a noise in another hallway off from where we are waiting. She quickly snaps a picture up the hall.)

Friend: “Oh, my God! Look at this!” *shows us a picture of two people embracing* “Um, isn’t that [Lead]’s husband and [Other Woman]? Are they having an affair?”

Me: “Wait a minute. It looks like she’s crying; he could simply be comforting her. I wondered who [Lead] aimed that comment at, about someone not being able to have babies.”

Friend: “Oh, she did say that, didn’t she? I thought I misheard her.”

Me: “I was standing next to her.”

Other Friend: “I must have missed that comment, but I did wonder why [Other Woman] got up and walked out of the room.”

 

How To Get Picked Up By Guys: Look Homeless

, , , , , , | Romantic | December 6, 2018

(I am out late at night, walking to a convenience store. I lead a largely nocturnal schedule so I sometimes have to go to stores at night. I live in an okay neighborhood, but not completely safe, so I do my best not to look like an attractive target for harassment or robbery. There is nothing I can do to hide being female, but I wear old frumpy clothes, going for a look somewhere between “poor” and “homeless.” This evening, about a block before I reach the store, a young guy in sweats and a hoodie, who’s casually walking in the other direction by me on the street, suddenly stops and turns to me.)

Guy: “Hey. Do you have any change to spare for me so I can take the bus?”

(It is too late for any bus line in this area to be running. I don’t carry any cash, in any case.)

Me: “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

Guy: “Oh, okay.” *goes on his way*

(Half a minute later, when he’s walked at least four house lengths away from me:)

Guy: “Hey! Hey! HEY! HEY! HEY!”

(I turn around and see he’s actually got his hands around the sides of his mouth to more effectively shout at me.)

Guy: “Hey! Do you wanna [unintelligible]?”

(I make a gesture that I don’t understand him.)

Guy: “Do you wanna [unintelligible]?”

(I make another gesture that I can’t hear.)

Guy: “Do you wanna [unintelligible]?”

(The best I could make it out in the moment, it sounded something like, “Do you wanna fight?” I was bit alarmed, and gestured again that I couldn’t hear him. Instead of doing anything sensible, like walking closer to me, the guy started making the “come here” beckoning gesture with his hands that is usually only made to little children. Having had quite enough of this dude bothering me, and having recently had another bad experience after a man made that same exact “come here” hand gesture at me and I was stupid enough to obey, I physically reared back while making a very alarmed expression, turned back around, and hurried super-fast in the opposite direction from him, to the store I was going to. Luckily, he didn’t follow me. Later, after going over the sounds in my head several times, I realized he had actually been calling at me, “Do you wanna ride?” Yes, the guy who’d just thirty seconds previously asked me to give him change so that he could take a — non-existent — bus, now decided it made sense to try to lure me in by offering me a ride.)

No Need To Pardon This French

, , , , , , , | Friendly | December 6, 2018

(My father and I are coming back home from church. We are speaking English because we attend an American church and just didn’t bother going back to speaking French. We’re both fluent and speak English with no accent at all. We take seats in the underground and go on with our conversation for a few minutes until I notice that the lady in the seat next to mine is glaring at us. Keep in mind that we’re in Paris, one of the cities with the most tourists in the world.)

Lady: *in French, to her friend, obviously thinking my father and I don’t understand* “These foreigners are way too loud! Why are they here? If they want to speak English, they should go back to their country. They should make an effort to speak French.”

(She keeps going on like that for quite some time. I tell my father, who was politely going to tell her to shut up that it’s not worth it, but her rant is starting to annoy me. At that point she’s speaking very loudly, and the other people around are looking at us.)

Lady: “Ils croivent qu’ils peuvent venir ici et nous envahir avec leur culture!” *They think they can come here and invade us with their culture!*

(There is an enormous grammar mistake in that sentence. Our stop is next, and my father is fuming by that time. I stand up and start towards the doors, but I can’t resist turning around to face her.)

Me: *in French* “Ma’am, you have been incredibly rude, and you’ve been disturbing the other passengers. If you don’t want to see foreigners, don’t live in Paris. Oh, and by the way, ‘croivent’ is not correct French, so maybe you should think twice before telling people to speak French, given that you are obviously unable to speak it correctly yourself.”

(She turned red, and some of the other passengers started laughing, including her own friend. I got off the underground with a huge grin on my face. My dad was laughing his a** off and ended up buying me a cookie on our way back.)

Start The Car Or Get The Girl

, , , , , , | Friendly | December 5, 2018

(When I am eighteen it is deemed necessary for me to buy a car. I buy one from a neighbor that is over twenty years old, but in good enough shape to get me back and forth to college. The car won’t start after a long day at school. My school has a driver assistance program for simple fixes. I call them, and within fifteen minutes a van pulls up. He tries to jump the car, which doesn’t work. The battery isn’t dead, so I assume the starter is having problems. I resign myself to calling a tow truck. I walk to the main entrance to wait for him. When he arrives, the tow truck he has brought is far too large to make it to the top floor of the parking garage.)

Tow Driver: “This one is too big. I’ll call my partner to bring the smaller truck.”

(While he is doing that, I notice a very pretty female student, who has gotten a flat tire in front of the garage. I offer to help. She grabs the jack and spare tire from her trunk and I go to work. My tow truck driver is now standing on the bed of his truck, screaming directions angrily into his phone for the smaller tow truck driver. It is comical, and the pretty girl and I both have a laugh. It is then that I notice that one of her lugnuts is a wheel lock, and I will need the special tool to get it off. This tool is usually kept near the spare.)

Me: “Do you have the adaptor for your wheel lock? It should be in the trunk where the rest of this was.”

Pretty Girl: “Oh, yeah. I didn’t know what that was, so I didn’t grab it.”

(She tries to open her trunk but it is locked. She goes for the drivers door… which is also locked.)

Pretty Girl: “Oh, no! I locked my keys in the car.”

(Sure enough, all the doors are locked, and the keys are on the front seat.)

Pretty Girl: “I think I am just going to call my dad; he has my spare keys and will be able to fix the tire.”

Me: “Are you sure? I would be happy to wait with you until he gets here.”

Pretty Girl: “No, that’s all right. I think your ride is here, anyway.”

(Sure enough, the second tow truck had showed up, so the two drivers and I piled in and made our way to my car. The original driver asked for my keys, sat in the driver’s seat, and tried the ignition. Nothing. He then tried again, this time mashing the gas pedal to the floor a few times, causing the car to start up with a roar like I had never heard from this car. Having never driven an older car to this point, giving it a little gas had never even occurred to me. I was on my way home five minutes later. So, to sum up, I paid over $200 to have another grown man teach me how to start my car. It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized my other mistake: I had been assisting a very pretty damsel in distress, and I never even thought to ask for her number.)

Driving Down Hookup Lane

, , , , , | Related | December 4, 2018

My dad loves to tell this story. Back before any of us kids were born, my parents lived in an apartment within easy walking distance of a car shop. One day, Mom had to drop the car off for repairs and decided to just hoof it back home. It was only a mile and a half, but part of the sidewalk did border a busy main road.

Mom started walking home, and noticed a car driving slowly up to her. It reached to level with her and drove alongside her, and she saw it was a man driving the vehicle. He looked at her, then sped off. Mom shook it off and kept walking.

A bit further on, a different car did the same thing: slowed down, drove up until it was level with her, drove a bit alongside her, then sped off. It was also a man driving. Now, Mom was starting to worry.

A third car, driven by a third man, did the same thing, and Mom just kept walking forward, not turning her head. The car drove away, and Mom finally got home.

When Dad came home, Mom told him about the three cars, which set Dad off laughing. He explained that the area she was walking through was a known hotspot for prostitutes. Mom, still a bit rattled, said, “But I wasn’t wearing any sexy clothes or makeup! I was sweaty and hadn’t washed my hair. How did they think I was a hooker?!”

I guess they were really desperate.

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