My Not-So-Private-Anymore Shame

Shame & Rental Cars (An Embarrassingly Awkward Tale)

February 15, 2012

There shall be no more Movie Mondays.

This isn’t because of an anti-cinematography bent I’m on now.

Rather, my grandma has returned home to St. Louis.

(We all knew her broken shoulder couldn’t last forever.)

Though my Grandma has a fear of flying, having recently experienced the drive from St. Louis to Virginia, she wasn’t willing to live it in reverse and thus I accompanied her home.

This necessitated me renting a car.

Which, given my need to come back to my home, required me returning said car.

I’d forgotten to save the location of the rental company in my GPS when I arrived, which I think I can blame on my Grandma’s mere presence.

(That seems fair, right?)

So returning the car, I found what the GPS claimed to be the rental company’s location.

But my GPS was lying.

(Unless said location was their secret, underground branch and then I owe Molly quite the apology.)

(Molly is my GPS.)

(Obviously.)

At which point, I was running a bit late and was quite a bit lost.

Then, over the skyline, like Taylor discovering the Statue of Liberty but with a completely different moral, I saw the airport control tower.

(Whew!)

Using it as my Northern Star, I found the car rental place and drove in.

(Sadly, this is not the end of the story.)

I pulled into the long line of cars, where a female attendant was standing, motioning me forward.

Now, parking isn’t my strength.

(As many, many left notes have attested.)

(Interesting aside: only once has anyone ever called me regarding a so-terribly-sorry-my-car-drove-in-that-place-where-it-turns-out-your-car-already-was  letter.)

But the woman’s waving hand was insistent, so I pulled forward centimeter by centimeter until eventually I was so positive I was about to hit the car in front of me that I parked despite her continued encouragement.

I gathered Molly and my bag and various car debris and slightly stumbled out into the freezing St. Louis air.

The attendant asked about payment and I stumbled over my words as she sat down in the driver’s seat, glancing about.

She then uttered rather unexpected words.

“This isn’t our car.”

Somehow, in my frantic rush to find Budget’s rental car location, I became flustered.

At least, that’s what I’m assuming happened when I saw the big, bright Hertz sign and pulled in.

Given my personality and inherent awkwardness, I’m not easily embarrassed.

But, as a car had pulled up behind me and I had to have another attendant help me get out of my too-tight parking spot, I could tell this was an especially humiliating moment.

This was reinforced by hearing other attendants start laughing as my predicament was shared.

And wasn’t particularly helped by their gathering along the edge of the car to watch as I blushed and pulled forward and back and forward and back.

I did eventually find the right place.

I even made my flight.

Which is good, as I don’t know if I’d have had the strength to try to rent another car.

When I told my parents they both had the exact same response

“Oh, Megan”

Megan

~~~~~

Equally Awkward Reads

* My Flat Tire

* Best Pick-Up Line Ever

* Frugality’s Revenge

Pin it
Shame & Rental Cars (An Embarrassingly Awkward Tale)

Tagged as: Embarrassment is always funny in retrospect, I'm just as strange in real life, This stuff happens so often I should be used to it

{ 43 comments }

Election Shame 2011 (Or How I Embarrassed Myself at My Polling Station and Possibly Mis-Voted)

November 8, 2011

I Voted Sticker

I sat in the car, staring at the torn piece of paper in my hands.

It was my election cheat sheet.

Some people are very involved in local politics.

I am not.

But, a maximum of a week before elections, I start doing some research.

Or, truthfully, Skye starts doing some research.

Then, the night before an election, I steal said research.

(It’s a delicate give and take.)

While reading my possibilities, I realized I’d forgotten to jot down the name of my choice for sheriff.

There’s been quite a local kerfuffle over retirement funds, accusations and incredibly strange policies.

Hence, I’ve decided to support the candidate who I think seems least jerk-y.

(Aren’t you glad my vote counts?)

I frantically called Skye to ask the name, only she was on a work call.

(How inconsiderate.)

Standing in the short line just inside the door of the nearby elementary school, a volunteer came over and, after asking my name, directed me to the empty table on the other side of the auditorium.

(There are benefits to having a last name at the end of the alphabet.)

(Well, there’s a benefit.)

I took a few steps before realizing I was cutting through the other lane’s pathways, causing a man in a wheelchair to jerk to a stop.

I stopped momentarily, which only delayed everyone a second longer, then continued onto my table, apologetically saying “sorry, I’m not good at lines.”

I figure there’s a 40% chance the election official was laughing with me, so I consider that a win.

After triple verifying my address, guaranteeing any serial killers standing nearby knew where to head to and hide for the coming night, the man looked up at me, asking “Do you want to use a machine or fill in the circles by hand?”

I glanced around and saw multiple stations for hand-filling and only one machine.

“Huh,” I figured, “there must have been some strange backlash against mechanical voting machines and now there’s a trend back toward hand-filled ballots.”

I’m not one to go against the election bandwagon, so I said “hand ballot – it’ll be like taking a school test again!”

As I grabbed the ballot and walked forward, I noticed the rows of machines, filled with people.

I sat down at the provided desks, the only person choosing to fill in the little election circles with the provided pen.

(Apparently, years of teachers assuring me machines only read #2 pencils were just a story of lie after lie.)

(Or my votes didn’t actually count, which, considering what’s coming up, would be just tragically humorous.)

I filled in all the candidates except for sheriff, then stared down at the form, desperately searching my brain for the name of my preferred choice.

I considered guessing but then just couldn’t live with guessing the wrong person. I considered not voting in that category but then just couldn’t live with not symbolically punishing the person I think is jerkiest. I considered sitting there ’til the name magically appeared in my mind but then remembered from actual school tests that magic never works when you need it to.

There was only one possible solution.

I turned toward an election official standing next to the submission machine. “Could you tell me who the incumbent sheriff is?”

The man, who, joking aside, was named Borat, was probably shocked at being asked a question and responded “there’s only two men running.”

“Yes, could you tell me the incumbent?”

He identified one of the names on the list who I sincerely hope was truly the incumbent.

(Fingers crossed.)

I quickly filled in my last circle, then placed my ballot in the provided folder and walked up to Borat’s station.

I stared at the machine for a second before holding out the folder towards Borat.

“You don’t put the folder in,” he quickly informed me.

I’d known at least that much – I just hadn’t figured I was suppose to put my ballot in myself and had been handing off my folder. Though I understand having confusion over whether I was smart enough to know not to try to stuff a folder down the calculating contraption.

(Known, to some, as the ballot box.)

I took out my ballot and went to slide it down the slot as Borat asked “did you fill out the back?”

“…didn’t know there was a back,” I sheepishly responded as I flipped the ballot over and started frantically filling in the additional bubbles while still standing there.

Thankfully, there was no one waiting as there’d still yet to be another citizen to choose the hand voting method.

“Probably should have just done the electronic voting, huh?” I said to Borat, trying to stop the blush engulfing my face.

“They’re both the same,” he responded.

“No, I meant because I’m too stupid to figure out the paper… you know what, never mind.”

I slunk out of the room as quickly as possible, vowing to move before next year’s election.

At least I still got my sticker,

Megan

Pin it
Election Shame 2011 (Or How I Embarrassed Myself at My Polling Station and Possibly Mis-Voted)

Tagged as: I'm just as strange in real life, I've come to embrace the awkward

{ 79 comments }

My D.C. Breakdown, Take Two (Or Who Else Wants to Live in a Castle?)

October 30, 2011

Grand Hyatt Washington

Allison’s alarm went off at 7:40am. Though we’d only fallen asleep a few hours earlier, I knew I couldn’t let myself fall back to sleep.

For the previous night, as Skye and I walked away from my parked car and I realized I had forgotten my phone, we had neglected to check the street for signs.

Thus, Allison and I rose, needing to walk steeply uphill for a few blocks to verify that we didn’t need to move my car.

(Often, in Allison’s neighborhood, cars can’t be parked in one spot one day a week, ’cause they hate sleep.)

(Also to clean the streets.)

(But mainly ’cause they are the enemy of sweet dreams.)

(By they, I mean the street sign administrators. Obviously.)

Turns out?

We didn’t need to move my car.

So, good exercise opportunity there.

Returning to Allison’s, I was quite hungry so she raided her refrigerator to see what there was to steal.

We settled on eggs. Then, showcasing her roommate’s lack of consideration for my breakfast, the eggs failed the floating test.

How thoughtless.

We decided to return to bed and sleep away our hunger.

A few hours later, I crawled out of bed and picked up my camera bag and large pink duffel and canvas bag holding the laptopii.

Allison came downstairs to let me out and give me directions to the metro.

(Her townhouse’s wrought iron door needs to be unlocked with a key from the inside.)

(I’m assuming this was built to increase news stories of deadly D.C. fires.)

(Most conspiracies are schemed by journalists.)

(Or so I’ve heard.)

Grand Hyatt Washington

The metro was surprisingly crowded.

This was made uncomfortable by my huge bags, none of which disappeared as I hoped they would as I squeezed my way into a car, hitting at least two other passengers.

After three stops, I got off at the Chinatown station.

I had planned on switching lines to get to Metro Center, but wasn’t up to yet another teeming throng of tourists.

Allison had told me it wasn’t a far walk, half a mile or so, and I naively figured it was the smart choice.

Looking up at the Chinatown Gate I recalled Allison’s advice, “turn left and walk as the street numbers increase.”

I dutifully turned and walked, constantly adjusting my bags as they started digging deeply into my shoulders.

It only took a few blocks before I realized the street I was walking along was 7th.

So here I was, in the middle of the city, with no phone or directions or idea of where I was walking.

I strongly considered crying but then decided I didn’t have the time, so I sat down on a bank’s marble windowsill to review my options and appear as non-indigent as possible.

Before I could give in to my small breakdown I remembered that stuck into my bag of laptops was my iPad. Though I’d never opened it before, there was a map option and I quickly entered “Metro Center” and asked for directions.

Thirteen days, came the response.

Huh.

And I hadn’t even switched it from driving to walking mode.

After a few frantic minutes I realized that the problem wasn’t that it thought I was somewhere ludicrously far away, but rather that it thought I wanted to go to a metro station in France.

(Technology’s harder than it looks.)

(Especially television remotes.)

(And elliptical machines.)

Switching my destination to D.C.’s Metro Center, it showed me both the location of the metro (the exact opposite direction of where I’d been walking) and the hotel located directly above it, the Washington Marriott at Metro Center.

This was obviously the hotel I was seeking, so I re-hoisted my bags and pivoted, already anticipating the joy of getting to sit down and have something to eat.

Grand Hyatt Washington

I walked in the rotating doors of the Marriott and noticed signs to the right pointing to the meeting rooms. The arrows pointed both up and down the stairs so I went with my gut and headed down.

Wandering down the hallways, I glanced into room after room, each filled with empty tables and chairs and lacking any sense of life.

I sighed with exhaustion and hunger but girded myself and headed up the stairs.

Coming to the top of the second flight, I noticed people pouring into a room down the way. I followed along and was poking my head in when a woman wearing a black pantsuit approached, asking “excuse me, can I help you?”

“Yes,” I responded, “do you know where the Elmo meeting is?”

“No,” she hesitantly replied, pointing behind me, “but she might be able to help you.”

I turned and a female hotel employee stepped forward.

I repeated my question and she gave me a hesitant look. “I’m sorry, we don’t have that meeting here.”

“I’m suppose to deliver this stuff to my mom and she said it was the hotel over Metro Center.”

“Are you sure she isn’t at the JW Marriott?” she rejoined, “it’s just a few blocks down.”

“Well, I don’t know the name of the hotel, but she definitely said it was directly on top of Metro Center.”

Apparently, I was in the wrong hotel. With no notion of the correct hotel or ability to call my mom and ask why she was trying to shame me to death.

It’s likely the woman caught the thread of panic in my tone, because she calmly assured me that they would help me figure it out and had a passing man guide me down to the concierge desk.

“So what group is your mom with?” he asked me as he rounded the desk and lifted a telephone receiver.

Then I realized I didn’t actually know the specific meeting she was attending, having never bothered to ask.

“Well, it could be the Elmo meeting. Or the Big Bird meeting. Probably one of those.”

Only for the sake of reality, imagine that the real names of the meetings are long acronyms for confusing medical terminology, which is relatively difficult to absorb and repeat.

He proceeded to call a list of local hotels, asking if they were holding meetings for either organization. After a series of “no”s, he suggested I try looking up the location online.

A few Google searches later, I had the name of the correct hotel.

I asked the hotel employee if he knew where it was, and after informing me he did and it was close by he insisted he’d take me there.

Likely because he’s a fabulous human being and he’d started to doubt my mental acuity or ability to find my own way.

But with his guidance, I located the hotel and made my way down three escalators to my mom’s meeting.

After offering my guide my eternal gratitude, I looked around at the multitude of chandeliers surrounding me.

At which point I realized something – if I lived in a castle, these kinds of things just wouldn’t happen.

It was only days later when someone suggested I could have just used their phone to call my mom and ask

So that’s a good plan for next time,

Megan

Pin it
My D.C. Breakdown, Take Two (Or Who Else Wants to Live in a Castle?)

Tagged as: D.C. is my favorite city near where I live, I'm just as strange in real life, This stuff happens so often I should be used to it

{ 75 comments }

← Previous Entries