Oh, I hate people. I just know I'm going to turn into one of those old ladies that calls the police when the neighbor drives into his driveway at 3:00 am.
I walked the dog with my friend at the dog park today. I was standing by my car, brushing the dog out after my friend left, when I noticed that there were two guys who'd been walking around the cars, especially a Cadillac SUV, and stopped when they saw me looking at them. They spent some time trying to look relaxed, as if they always got out of their old truck to wander around in the small parking lot. They sauntered back to their truck and talked to two other guys sitting there. These people reminded me of a dog who's been caught eating food off a plate on the coffee table, only not at all friendly. They wouldn't make eye contact. Then, they watched me as I wrote down their license plate number.
Isn't there an unwritten rule that you don't hang around other people's cars, looking into them? You're supposed to get out of your car in a parking lot and go where you're going. You might linger by your own car, getting stuff out maybe, but unless there's a 1967 Ford Mustang sitting there, you don't even pay attention to other cars. Oh, and if you are looking at a car you really like, you might make a comment about it's lines or how you'd never be able to afford it if someone walks up while you're standing there gawking.
These people didn't even have a dog. See, there are about eight spots to park a car there. It's an off leash area with nothing else around it. Unless you just want to cut through the park to walk along the Snoqualmie Valley Trail, you need a dog to have a good reason to be there.
Oh, and they were the tattoo and pierced variety. See, when a tattooed person brings their dog to the park, I stand around and chat with them while our dogs play. I don't expect to become friends with them, really, but I don't mind admiring their dog. Without a dog, my natural suspicion of the tattoo and pierced people raises its ugly head. Type casting. Profiling. But you have to admit that if someone looks like a derelict, they're usually a derelict.
So, no dog, skulking around looking into cars, and tattoos growing up into their sleeves. That's why I wrote down their license plate number. See, I had a plan.
I put the dog into my car, wrote down the plate number, and headed back to the park where I could see a woman in the park who was still in sight. I looked back to see tattoo guys taking a picture of my car. The hair on the back of my neck raised up a little higher.
I walked back toward my car, fumbling with my phone. I took about six pictures of these guys and their truck, got into my car, and drove it over to the gate at the entrance of the park. I couldn't really get my car very far from these guys. I was not subtle. I could still see the woman with her dogs, so I called her over and told her what I thought of the guys loitering by the cars. She wrote down the license plate number and actually wanted me to send her the photos. I did, noticing that the woman had no problem giving me her phone number. Another woman wandered by and I gave her the plate number as well. She told me she was going to put the information on Facebook. Good idea, I thought!
So when I got home, I posted their picture with a caption about what I'd seen them doing. Then a friend commented that these guys looked pretty pissed. Good point. They looked like bad-asses. Maybe I shouldn't post actual pictures of them. What if they were all-around normal bad-asses who weren't fond of the idea of having their pictures posted on Facebook with an unfounded accusation of smash and grab? I hadn't actually accused them of any crime, but bad-asses and their friends wouldn't see it that way.
What if I'm actually friends with someone who's friends with them and they can see this nasty little comment. What if? I don't know how open-minded my friends really are, maybe more than I am. I might have a friend or two who has another set of friends, including the tattoo and pierced variety.
Meanwhile, Jack and his buddy are playing with Legos in the living room. I told them the story and said, "I just can't seem to stay out of trouble."
Jack's friend said, "You're probably mad because of what happened when those guys bashed in your window and took your backpack when we were at that park." That made me feel a little better.
So, I had to work to delete the photo and my friend's comment flew off into the ether with it. Bummer. I'd have to send her an apology, so I did that too. Then, I called Mike who said that these bad-asses just might have a way to look up my plate number and get my address. That means that I could have bad-asses come to my house to enact revenge for my photo-taking foibles. When I got off the phone, I realized that the boys had been listening.
"Mom, they won't bother you. You're a grizzly bear." Hmm.
You hear that, you bad-asses? Just try to come to my house. Just try it.
Thank you for listening, jules
I walked the dog with my friend at the dog park today. I was standing by my car, brushing the dog out after my friend left, when I noticed that there were two guys who'd been walking around the cars, especially a Cadillac SUV, and stopped when they saw me looking at them. They spent some time trying to look relaxed, as if they always got out of their old truck to wander around in the small parking lot. They sauntered back to their truck and talked to two other guys sitting there. These people reminded me of a dog who's been caught eating food off a plate on the coffee table, only not at all friendly. They wouldn't make eye contact. Then, they watched me as I wrote down their license plate number.
Isn't there an unwritten rule that you don't hang around other people's cars, looking into them? You're supposed to get out of your car in a parking lot and go where you're going. You might linger by your own car, getting stuff out maybe, but unless there's a 1967 Ford Mustang sitting there, you don't even pay attention to other cars. Oh, and if you are looking at a car you really like, you might make a comment about it's lines or how you'd never be able to afford it if someone walks up while you're standing there gawking.
These people didn't even have a dog. See, there are about eight spots to park a car there. It's an off leash area with nothing else around it. Unless you just want to cut through the park to walk along the Snoqualmie Valley Trail, you need a dog to have a good reason to be there.
Oh, and they were the tattoo and pierced variety. See, when a tattooed person brings their dog to the park, I stand around and chat with them while our dogs play. I don't expect to become friends with them, really, but I don't mind admiring their dog. Without a dog, my natural suspicion of the tattoo and pierced people raises its ugly head. Type casting. Profiling. But you have to admit that if someone looks like a derelict, they're usually a derelict.
So, no dog, skulking around looking into cars, and tattoos growing up into their sleeves. That's why I wrote down their license plate number. See, I had a plan.
I put the dog into my car, wrote down the plate number, and headed back to the park where I could see a woman in the park who was still in sight. I looked back to see tattoo guys taking a picture of my car. The hair on the back of my neck raised up a little higher.
I walked back toward my car, fumbling with my phone. I took about six pictures of these guys and their truck, got into my car, and drove it over to the gate at the entrance of the park. I couldn't really get my car very far from these guys. I was not subtle. I could still see the woman with her dogs, so I called her over and told her what I thought of the guys loitering by the cars. She wrote down the license plate number and actually wanted me to send her the photos. I did, noticing that the woman had no problem giving me her phone number. Another woman wandered by and I gave her the plate number as well. She told me she was going to put the information on Facebook. Good idea, I thought!
So when I got home, I posted their picture with a caption about what I'd seen them doing. Then a friend commented that these guys looked pretty pissed. Good point. They looked like bad-asses. Maybe I shouldn't post actual pictures of them. What if they were all-around normal bad-asses who weren't fond of the idea of having their pictures posted on Facebook with an unfounded accusation of smash and grab? I hadn't actually accused them of any crime, but bad-asses and their friends wouldn't see it that way.
What if I'm actually friends with someone who's friends with them and they can see this nasty little comment. What if? I don't know how open-minded my friends really are, maybe more than I am. I might have a friend or two who has another set of friends, including the tattoo and pierced variety.
Meanwhile, Jack and his buddy are playing with Legos in the living room. I told them the story and said, "I just can't seem to stay out of trouble."
Jack's friend said, "You're probably mad because of what happened when those guys bashed in your window and took your backpack when we were at that park." That made me feel a little better.
So, I had to work to delete the photo and my friend's comment flew off into the ether with it. Bummer. I'd have to send her an apology, so I did that too. Then, I called Mike who said that these bad-asses just might have a way to look up my plate number and get my address. That means that I could have bad-asses come to my house to enact revenge for my photo-taking foibles. When I got off the phone, I realized that the boys had been listening.
"Mom, they won't bother you. You're a grizzly bear." Hmm.
You hear that, you bad-asses? Just try to come to my house. Just try it.
Thank you for listening, jules
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