Excuse me, miss?

Judging from personal experience, I have found those words to frequently deliver a certain level of discomfort. I mean, really. Who usually addresses you in such a way?

1. Melvin, asking for your phone number after he's convinced himself that you are romantically attracted to him when all you were really trying to do was read the Chuck Norris Top-10 list posted on the wall directly behind him.
   
2. The "nice" police officer, who always seems to want to know why HE pulled YOU over. If he would take two seconds to think about it, he'd realize his mistake. You can't get to looking this good in the measley 2-hours-worth of time you alotted yourself this morning. Blinker or bronzer. Need I say more? Side note: maybe don't tell him "you're welcome" after applying lip gloss. It conducts electricity better than you think and tasers are awful on the hair (ANY hair).
   
3. The evil, maniacal mom-of-6, in the toy aisle at Walmart, right before she excuses herself past you like an NFL linebacker "excuses" himself down the field.

Ok, I must be honest. I will gladly suffer through any of the above if I am referred to as "Miss" simply because it implies I am young and SINGLE. The same explanation also referrs to my previous post about that certain doctor's appointment. I got my test results back. Everything was normal (they use that term a little loosely, dontcha think?), but the one thing I was most thrilled about? It came addressed to Ms. Janelle Thorpe. I happily updated my marriage status while I was waiting to be (ob)seen. Never have I been so happy to fill out medical forms. Granted, I probably could've turned them in a little less-loudly. "Of COURSE they are completed! See? Name? Check! Address? Check! MARITAL STATUS?? CHECK!! Yes, yes, I KNOW I stated I occasionally have cramps bad enough I could fold an iron rod in half with my abs. You're missing the point! Oh, you're ENGAGED. Can I get a hallelujah from someone who has been drug, by their wedding ring, to the very gates of hell and back? Ah, yes, I knew there'd be someone. Oh, look, there's about SEVEN someones. Forget the hallelujah; let's go get a drink!"

Whoa.

Anyway, yesterday was an "Excuse me, miss" kinda day. I was at work when I saw two men pull up in a pickup truck. This is not unusual at an engineering firm, except for the fact that these men were nicely dressed and I couldn't hear any actual swearing when the car door opened. I watched them approach my car and check the VIN number. (Hey, I may be a girl, but I know where my VIN is. Still looking for that blinker fluid, though.) Once they had confirmed that it was, in fact, the car my car was posing as, they headed toward the office.

Being the lady that I am, I met them halfway across the parking lot. We introduced ourselves and they looked sheepishly at the ground for a fleeting moment before I heard, "We need to take the car." I nodded and smiled a knowing-smile. Wow. Levi is awesome.

I asked them if I was allowed to remove my personal items from it and as I came back out with the keys and a box, I regained my dignified, lady-like poise and blurted, "That's what I get for marrying an a$$hole." But they were very helpful in removing my stuff. Maybe they were just trying to hurry me up. Either way, I was complimented on my exquisite fashion sense after catching a glimpse of my purple Maglite flashlight. I left out the fact that I've heard it works equally as well as a croquet mallet for ex-husbands' heads. I've heard.

And you know what irks me the most? I put a full tank of gas in it Sunday night! Naturally. So anyway, blah blah blah, no mo' Volvo.

This is gonna get interesting.