Those three little words...

I had sushi lunch yesterday with a much younger man. Last year I worked in the office next to his and one day the sight of my John Deere mug lured him in, attracted as he is to all things Country-Western. The fact that I grew up in MT intrigues him, although I'm definitely not the stereotypical Montanan. He's become something of an honorary family member - his phone number even gets the ringtone I've assigned to anyone to whom I'm related by DNA or the power of the great state of Montana - the theme song from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly." In fact, in my role as surrogate auntie, I've tried to give good advice in response to his questions on all manner of issues while offering the disclaimers that I'm not the typical _____, and that he'll always get the often-skewed Val view of the world. But I think that's why it's good that he knows me.




I drove yesterday, it was my turn, although it meant giving up the precious parking space. But anything for my favorite nephew! Upon return to Parking Lot 5 after lunch (Sushi Nobu's going downhill, by the way), I vultured the main area a bit, then tried my luck in the back corner. Eureka. I turned on my right blinker. "There's nothing there," he said. "I think I saw one." "No. You didn't." Employing una treta del débil I said, "Well, let me just see, I'm probably wrong, but I can always just turn around." "Oooo Kayyy, if you really want to..." he said, patronizing beyond his years. "I do," I said, "and if I'm wrong so be it." I approached as slowly as I could, toying with him, even turning on my left blinker before pulling into the pristine slot. "Aw, fuck!" he said. I stopped the car, cut the engine and turned to him and ordered, "Say it." "Dammit, Valerie! No!" I persisted, "Say it, bitch!"

"You were right."