No Gap dresses, no cigars.

Its summertime and that can only mean one thing for those of us in the government subcontracting world.

The interns have arrived.

Our particular building doesn’t have an intern. It would be, I dunno, illegal or some crap. Well, probably not illegal, but also likely not a good idea based on how much these interns seem to like to talk. Plus we have lots of alarms going off all the time and that might scare them. Or interfere with their cell phone coverage. One or the other.

Parking is at a premium here, and no one has made the interns aware of this. Recently I had a meeting at another one of the buildings and there was absolutely no way I could walk over (I’m fat, it’s 200 degrees outside, it was several miles, and I didn’t want to smell like my ex-husband’s feet by the time I got there. No more explanation should be required.). I drove, expecting to park in the absolutely enormous, three level parking lot, and take a short walk across a lovely courtyard.

There were no parking spaces left. Zero. None.

I drove slowly through the parking complex and noticed that there were at least ten or eleven cars with large University of Where-ever! kind of stickers on them and bumper stickers that said things like “Sex Wax” (I don’t want to know what that’s about) and Mardi Gras beads and Graduation tassels hanging from the rearview mirrors. I wouldn’t have noticed these cars had they not been taking up two parking spaces each. Then I felt really old. I felt even older when I had to park illegally in some place just past BFE and walk about 2 miles. And I probably smelled bad during my meeting because I did notice that no one sat by me.

But I was nice and pleasant about it. Because I believe that children are our future. Or some crap.

I did get irritated when a gaggle of girls who were all approximately eighteen years old and were apparently speaking to someone in outer Mongolia on their cell phones (based solely on how loudly they were speaking) almost plowed into me while I was walking ON THE SIDEWALK across the courtyard. I was originally irritated because they were walking on the grass when there is a lovely sidewalk to walk on. But when they all simultaneously made a left-turn and darn near ran me over, I got pissed.

I got further pissed because they were all wearing shortie shorts and tank tops and those really high wedge heels and approximately eighty-six necklaces. Because that doesn’t seem like proper attire. I mean, I know that I wear a t-shirt to work nearly every day of my life (not one with WORDS on it or anything, just a plain colored t-shirt. With a v-neck. Or a scoop neck. Or a U-neck, except good LORD I cannot figure out how anyone can wear a bra with that shirt and my bra just sticks out all the freaking time), and usually I wear jeans or khakis or, lately Capri pants and always my crocs. But no one can ever, ever see my butt cheeks. Now once, lately, my pants did slip down a bit because they’ve gotten a little big on me and my co-worker who told me she was going to show me her whale tail said, “I can see the DUCKS on your underwear!” and I was all like, “Yeah. You like it.” And then we laughed really hard. But I don’t think that’s the same thing at all.

But anyway. I figured I was jealous of all the Hottie McHotsters and left it at that. Yes, they look mighty fine in those shorts that their buttcheeks are hanging out of. I, likely, would not. Nor will I be trying that look in the conceivable future, but that’s not the point.

I didn’t get really mad until the other day when I was trying to leave. You don’t mess with my leaving.

I was driving into the roundabout. Now, I don’t have any clue why they put a roundabout into the middle of a parking lot that is driven daily by a bunch of hillbillies like me, but I won’t get into all of that or the confusion factor of it. Basically the roundabout goes, well, AROUND, obviously and there are commuter paths which lead you up to the big parking lot. So you slow way down when going in, and if people are crossing the paths, then you stop and wait on them.

Fine.

I’m driving into it, and I see a girl approaching. So I slow way, way down (I’m only going fifteen as it is) so I can stop. She walks into the middle of the footpath.

And she stops.

She starts digging in her purse. Cars start lining up behind me.

I wait.

She continues digging in her purse. Someone behind me honks, as fifteen cars back up, completely blocking the roundabout. She looks up at me and holds one finger up, like, “Wait a minute.” I’m not even the one who honked.

She roots around in her purse for probably less than a minute, but it seemed like an hour. I’m thinking, “I understand she has to look for her keys, but good LORD, could she not get out of the path of oncoming traffic to do so?”

Finally, she yanks out her prize. Which is not her keys, because that would have made sense.

It was her cell phone.

She answers and as she finally walks and I step on the gas to move past her I hear her say through my open window, “God people here are SO RUDE!”

Hey Kettle? This is Pot. You’re black.